A Refraction of Light
by matchstickdolly
Summary: Takes place directly after 3x24, "A Devil of My Word." AU for season four, onward. The Sinnerman's legacy lives on in the LAPD as a new street drug is tied to a string of heinous murders. While Lucifer and Chloe struggle to solve the mystery plaguing Los Angeles, they discover they are stronger together than apart. In Hell, Cain climbs his way to the top.
1. Revelation

_For those of you who feel you need content warnings, here's a vague warning that won't spoil anything for anyone else: There will be blood and darkness and grit because that's how I roll. My little black heart can't help it. The darkness may or may not include gruesome descriptions of violence, explicit sex, depression or suicide, drug use, and putting a truckload of money in the swear jar. On the upside, I believe in happiness and the power of love, so there are usually lights at the end of these tunnels. Usually._

* * *

**01\. REVELATION**

* * *

"It's all true," Chloe breathes, her eyes wide.

"Detective?"

"It's all true." She shuffles back, stopping only when a boot heel collides with the bottom-most stair.

Lucifer steps forward, a hand outstretched in concern—and this is when he sees it, the telltale crimson. His very own Mark of Cain.

"No," he croaks, his hands flying up to his cheeks. Why _now_?

Chloe stumbles back, draping herself on the stairs. She never takes her eyes off him as she leans farther away. Farther from him.

"You're—"

"Terrifying?" He drops his hands back to his sides, giving up all pretenses of normality.

"—the Devil."

Emphasis on _the_. The one, the only, please give a round of applause for.

"I have always told you the truth."

"You don't lie," she agrees, trembling.

"Now you're getting it." A grim smile twists his monstrous mouth.

This is wrong. Even though she's somehow able to form complete sentences—how? it took Linda weeks—this is still so very wrong. Assuming there was ever _any_ good way to reveal himself to her, it was decidedly _not_ in a broken room, standing next to her ex-fiance's cooling corpse.

He knows how it looks, what _he_ looks like and in fact _is_: a sanguine grotesque in Italian wool. For so long, he's reveled in this face, all the power it affords him, especially among mortals. After all, if he's to be the poster child of evil, why not be it in spades?

Now, though, a deep shame gnaws at his insides as he scrambles to stuff the monster back into Pandora's pretty little jar. Again and again he tries, but just as his wings have grown and regrown of their own accord, the leathery, red skin now persists. Here I am, it says. Take a damn good look at my sins.

A small voice whispers inside of Lucifer, _What if it never goes away?_ After all, he's killed Cain, a human.

What a punishment that would be. Like something straight out of his own toolbox in Hell.

They stare at each other in a wild-eyed standoff, spiraling down their own living Hell loops. They breathe raggedly, as if there's not enough air in the cavernous room, as if gale-force winds aren't blasting through the floor-to-ceiling window he's blown to bits.

Chloe breaks the silence, surprising him. "I'm not afraid of you."

"You're an awful liar."

She surprises him again as she forces herself to stand, arms folded over chest, fingers white-knuckling elbows. "I'm not lying." She breaks their hypnotic staring contest and takes in the surrounding room, the chipped columns and destroyed mezzanine. "This is bad."

_Welcome back, Detective_, he thinks. If he could forget what face he is wearing, the exchange would almost feel normal.

"There's a lot to explain," she says.

Too much, really. For example, the unexplainable: a Hell-forged blade, enough feathers to build a divine goose from scratch. Not to mention Satan himself, letting it all air out. The whole bloody trifecta.

She looks at Cain with a thousand-yard stare. "Is that one of Maze's knives?"

"It is, actually." And how _did_ crafty Cain come to have it, _Mazikeen_? It certainly can't go into evidence. "Right," he sighs. "You're taking this far better than you should, so, in for a penny, in for a pound. I suggest you look away, Detective. I'm about to disturb the dead."

Without further preamble—because, really, how can he smooth over desecration with a face like this?—he bends and yanks the blade from Cain's chest. The depth of the wound and the force of the tug lift Cain's torso off the floor. The body falls back with a heavy thud that's music to his ears. _Ding-dong, the bastard's dead._ Only took thousands of years and a trail of bodies.

Chloe watches without blinking or commenting.

There's nothing to do about the remaining knife wound or the feathers, except to call in favors later that will make such problems go away.

It's possible Amenadiel is taking calls and would feel inclined to pop in for a time-bending cleanup session. Unfortunately, Amenadiel's abilities come as part of a package deal that includes meandering theological discourses Lucifer has no stomach for today. There's also the chance that Chloe would lose what is left of her mind if she had to deal with two supernatural beings right now.

Lucifer scratches at his face, grinds his teeth. The devil face remains locked in place. "Well, it would seem I'm stuck. This has never happened before."

"You...you can control it, usually?"

"Well, I don't bloody well go walking about like this all the time, do I?" he snaps, and immediately regrets it when she flinches. More gently, he adds, "Nobody would have a thing to do with me, Detective, least of all you."

She draws an unsteady breath. "I know this isn't you, Lucifer. And, well, even if it is, it's only one side of you. Right?"

"How do you not get this?" he laughs. "This. _Is._ Who. I. Am. What will it take for you to see that?" He scoffs, "You won't see it even when it's staring you in the face."

"I—"

Sirens wail, interrupting her. The warped bubble they've found themselves in bursts.

"Chloe... I don't want to leave you, but I..." Lucifer indicates his face with a disbelieving huff.

She nods. "Go."

"I'll make this right. You have my word."

"It's okay," she says, and gives him a watery smile.

Lucifer knows it's not, but he flees the scene. A concrete stairwell spits him out into a back alley that smells of motor oil and rotting cabbage from the garbage of an adjoining Korean restaurant. Stumbling to a shadowed space between two close-set buildings, he leans against a graffitied wall and tries one last time to put the Devil away. But Cain is right. He can't outrun what he's done. He's been a fool, believing he could be anything else.

Police cars surround the block, their sirens screaming, and, well, that's that. He must go. With a muffled cry, he unfurls his broken, bleeding wings and soars high on a lightning strike of pain. Loose feathers drift to the ground behind him.

The air thins above the sprawling, sun-kissed streets of Los Angeles. He zigs and zags low over the city, lower than he should in these days of planes and drones and zoom lenses. It's all his battered wings, all the ache beneath his ribs, will allow.

Soon, his building comes into view. He dives forward, aiming for the penthouse balcony until he remembers Dan and Ella may be inside with Cain's lackey. Slowing his descent with a groan, he changes course for the rooftop. When he lands, it's on tiptoes, and his knees buckle beneath him. He collapses onto the hot concrete and stays down, panting as he draws his wings in one last time.

Before darkness consumes him, he crawls into the shadows. He weeps silently and wonders if, like so many things in this endless existence, Chloe Decker's presence in his life has come to an abrupt, unsatisfying end.

* * *

_Bless me, Father, for I have sinned: This is unbeta'd as hell._


	2. Hell Loop

**02\. HELL LOOP**

* * *

There is only one law God built into his creation: kill or be killed. Hunt the lion before he eats you. Destroy your neighbor before he makes war. Smash your brother's skull before he slits your throat.

Cain aims and squeezes the trigger. This is his calling, to raise the sword and axe, to blow the dart, to strangle with rope and pummel with rock. Thousands of years, hundreds of weapons, the same end result. Time and again.

The world slows as first one, then two bullets exit the chamber. The projectiles spin, piercing the air in endless pirouettes as they hunt their target. The archangel Amenadiel, afflicted with divine hubris, never sees what's coming, never thinks to be aware of his surroundings. But his companion, Charlotte Richards, knows evil. She looks. She sees.

She does not sit idly by, and this changes everything.

The bullets meant for God's favorite son sink into human flesh. A mistake, a simple mistake, one of many, but how far will these ripples spread? Will this be his undoing?

The ground swallows him. He's born again into a black room. No walls, no floor, no ceiling. A void.

Chloe Decker stands before him, naked. She holds out her hand, a diamond engagement ring resting on her palm. "I can't marry you, Cain. I'm sorry."

She never suspects the depths of his evil, but the brightness in her shines on the dark truth that is in him. Her allegiances lie elsewhere. A pentagram is carved above her left breast. Fresh blood drips from the star-shaped wound, which is backlit by fire.

The gun is still in his hand, and, suddenly, his arm has a mind of its own. "No!" he screams. He uses all his strength to try and stop it, but his arm raises straight and true. His hand turns the gun sideways. Chloe begs for her life as he presses the muzzle between her blue eyes.

"He can't have you," he growls. "You were supposed to fix _me_."

Cain squeezes the trigger, and Chloe crumples, blood and bone exploding from her head. This is his calling.

There is only one law God built into his creation: kill or be killed. Hunt the lion before he eats you. Destroy your neighbor before he makes war. Smash your brother's skull before he slits your throat.

Cain aims and squeezes the trigger.

Cain aims and squeezes the trigger.

Cain aims and squeezes the trigger.

This is his calling.


	3. To See and Be Seen

**03\. TO SEE AND BE SEEN**

* * *

Chloe is naked, or, at least, that's what it feels like when she hands over her badge and gun.

"See you in ten days, Decker."

"Yeah. Ten days," she echoes, shoulders slumping.

Rodney Garcia, the bald, hulking Latino who's serving as acting lieutenant, shrugs behind his desk. "Consider it a vacation. You know this shit always blows over."

It certainly did for Dan after Palmetto Street, but then Dan's Dan, and Chloe's...well, Chloe has never been one of the boys.

_They're threatened,_ she remembers Lucifer saying, on the very first day they met. _You're clearly smart and have notable instincts._

That's still probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about her skills as a cop. Does the meaning change, knowing it was said by the Devil? Don't think about it, she chastises herself.

She makes her way through HQ. Even in her current fog, it's impossible to miss the stares and stage whispers. She's back to being the precinct's favorite pariah.

_Ignore them_, he'd said. _Trust yourself._

Oh, but it's hard. And it's not as if she doesn't deserve _some_ side-eyeing this time. She disobeyed a ton of protocol, going in that place "alone." Worse, her story, that Pierce and his men turned on each other at the most convenient time possible, is flimsy—ludicrous, even. Especially since it's coming from Pierce's ex. Especially since Dan and Ella just happened to bring in Pierce's lackey, John Barrow, on the same exact day.

Barrow. She hates knowing she'll never get to question him, or better yet, watch him squirm under Lucifer's voodoo. And his statements may yet prove detrimental to her career.

The only thing keeping the suits from making an example out of her is the baseball-sized bruise that's blossomed two inches below her collarbone, a souvenir from being shot. Again. Making an example out of a cop is one thing. Making an example out of a cop who got injured in the line of duty is another. Getting shot is something all cops fear and grudgingly respect.

Thank God for Kevlar—well, thank _someone_. Probably a wild-haired inventor in a basement somewhere.

And thank the Devil. She's no idiot. She may not remember everything that happened, much less _how_ it all happened, but she knows Lucifer is the only reason she's alive.

Why does the Devil keep saving her life? As he's told her many times before, he's immortal. The concept alone boggles the mind. He can't honestly care about one little human, can he? And if temptation's really his angle, well, what a long game this has all been.

Chloe scoffs at what her life has become and jabs at the elevator button for the first floor. Now she's thinking about the metaphysical again, which, no, just no. She needs a break. She already spent all night contemplating her place in the universe while cuddling Trixie.

She's always been a both-feet-on-the-ground kind of woman. If she couldn't see it, couldn't gather enough evidence to support it, it wasn't real or it wasn't worth her time. No exceptions. Now there's evidence of the divine within driving distance. Huge ecclesiastical questions plague her at every turn.

Heaven and Hell, God and the Devil. Angels, demons, and who the hell knows what else. All real.

What bothers her most is how she is both surprised...and _not surprised at all_. All the baffling things Lucifer has said and done during their partnership click into place like LEGO bricks. The complaints about his otherworldly family, the magnetic charm and hypnotism, the sleight of hand, the endless wealth and questionably-legal wheeling and dealing, the superhuman strength.

It all seems so obvious that she wonders if she should just do the LAPD a huge favor and tender her resignation. How is it that the Devil has been strolling around L.A., solving crimes by her side? Why does he own a nightclub? Most importantly, how is it that she's never seen him for what he is, even when all the signs have been there, even when he's told her the truth every day?

How on earth did he become her best friend? At least... He _was_ her best friend. Now, who knows? Is it really possible to be friends with the Devil? What are the eternal consequences of _that_?

Does she care?

In the lobby, she stops beside a trash can. Her constitution has been pretty touch and go. After not eating for nearly twenty-four hours, the coffee she forced down her gullet this morning is threatening to revolt one way or another.

Breathe, she tells herself. Nausea and cramps roll through her for several long moments before blessedly subsiding.

A "vacation" is the very last thing she needs when her mind is racing like a hamster on a wheel. The thought of sitting at home with all these thoughts and fears... Forget food. A stop by a liquor store is in order. She'll take a page out of Lucifer's book and subsist on stimulants and depressants. Caffeine, alcohol...calories are calories.

Outside, she climbs into her car, cranks the engine, and dares to merge into L.A.'s clogged arteries. She drives even more carefully than usual. One bad accident could throw her into an eternity she never believed in before now. Worse, without more answers to Life's Biggest Questions, there's really no telling where she's headed in the afterlife.

What does it take to get into Heaven, to be relegated to Hell? She's fired her share of bullets over the years, disobeyed her parents, lied; let her eyes wander when she was married, even if she never, ever considered acting on those feelings. Oh, and _Hot Tub High School_ looms, topless as always. _Ugh._

She falls behind a red Honda Civic that's seen better days. Lucifer's crimson skin swims before her mind's eye, making it difficult to focus. Memory or dream? It's almost hard to be sure. Almost.

The Devil, it turns out, is more _and_ less disturbing than Hollywood imagines. Hornless, still standing tall and proud in a man's lithe body, in that damn tailored suit, Lucifer wasn't nearly so alien. Instead, it's the memory of the pain carved into his flesh that troubles her, for he looked like a scarred burn victim whose only treatment had been sunshine and saltwater. Who had no hope of healing.

Does his face feel as raw as it looks, or is it an illusion? A visual representation of what Lucifer has always said Hell is: endless torture, agony without panacea. Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum.

Though she didn't grow up in a religious household, culture has nonetheless taught her the gist of the Biblical Fall. That there was an angelic rebellion, that pride cometh before. She can't imagine Lucifer leading a rebellion, but she knows firsthand how stubbornly proud he can be.

But even assuming a Heavenly bloodbath, she struggles to see how eternal punishment could ever be fair, which is worrying when she considers some of the killers she's helped put away over the years. She's not sure anyone, even Warden Smith, who killed her father, deserves _eternal_ damnation.

Lucifer's existence is proof of God, but his existence also raises many questions about God. Questions, such as, _Is God good and just?_

What does it mean if the answer is no?

* * *

At home, it's so quiet that she doesn't know what to do with herself. Maze is still gone. Trixie is at school. She's never been one to sit around, but she also can't go far because the precinct may call her in at any time for more questioning during the investigation into Pierce's crimes and death.

_No._ No, not touching that today, either. Every time she thinks about how she had sex with him, how he is literally _Cain_, the world's first murderer, she wants to claw her skin off in a hot shower.

She pours a glass of cheap wine and glances at the door, half expecting Lucifer to waltz in and scold her for having poor taste. He certainly could bypass her deadbolt if he wanted. It wouldn't be the first time. What does a little lock mean to the Devil? No wonder stopping him from doing inappropriate things is like trying to hold back a tsunami with a fishing net.

Did he make it back to Lux? What face is he wearing now?

Biting her lip, Chloe grabs her phone. There's nothing wrong with checking up on him, is there?

_But of course I'm fine,_ she imagines him crooning. _I'm the Devil, darling. I'm immortal._

She shudders and unlocks her phone, only to cringe when she sees she has new messages from Dan and Ella. From Dan, a simple "Call me." From Ella, a plaintive "Heyyy, let me know when you're around." They have questions—lots of them. Some of them she can answer, but most she can't, or at least won't, not yet.

They barely managed to get their stories straight before they gave their statements. Chloe knows it was easier for her than it was for them, though they all received ten-day suspensions. Easier for her, because she knew what was truly at stake.

"You can't tell _anyone_ Lucifer was there."

And they didn't. Whether they lied blatantly or by omission, they obstructed justice for her. If there's one good thing that's come from her warped love life and the unrest at the LAPD, it's been finding out who will "ride or die" with her. It's a small list of people, but a damn fine one.

She _will_ talk to Dan and Ella. Soon. For now, she taps on Lucifer's cheeky grin in her contacts. Their message history is long, amusingly mundane, and laden with more innuendo that she cares to admit—and not all of it Lucifer's, either. Few days have passed in the last two years when they haven't teased each other or shared something funny, although the messages turned far more curt and coolly-professional during her ill-fated relationship with Pierce. Chloe scrolls up to simpler times.

_**Chloe:**__ Mind gracing us with your presence? We have a case._

_**Lucifer:**__ Be there soon. Gluttony called and I of course answered._

He'd attached an image of an open box of a dozen assorted doughnuts. One long, slender finger pointed to the powdered, lemon-filled doughnut at the center of the box. Her favorite.

A small thing, but Chloe's heart squeezes at the memory, which conjures several others like it. How bad can the Devil be if he remembers your favorite doughnut? Sure, he sometimes has selfish, ulterior motives, but not always. Sometimes he slow-dances with you simply because you missed out on prom.

_Hey, are you okay?_ She sends the message before she can overthink it.

And then she waits. And waits. And waits.

* * *

On the third day of her suspension, Chloe stares blankly at the Bible in front of her, unable to focus on the dull cadence of Deuteronomy's endless _shalls_ and _shalt nots_. It's her first time reading the holy book, and so far it's both a drag and an acid trip that can't possibly offer much insight into the truth. Right?

Unable to cope with the boredom of suspension and the thoughts rattling around in her brain, she's given into studying, or at least trying to. Anyone who sees her now might think she's dived headlong into church life.

Stacks of religious tomes, apologetics, literature, and academic ponderings tower on her kitchen table, most courtesy of the Los Angeles public library. She can't help but notice the majority of the books are in excellent condition. No one ever borrows them.

Unfortunately, studying religion feels a lot like doing paperwork, perhaps worse, and she finds she has nearly the same attention span for tedious reading in her thirties as she did when she barely got a C in English literature in high school.

She can almost hear Lucifer: _"Why waste your time on that rubbish when you can go straight to the source?"_ How apocryphal.

Even if she's ready for that—and it's hard to say if she is—two days have passed and Lucifer still hasn't responded to her messages. Is it wrong or stupid for her to worry?

Could he have been injured without her realizing it? For all his claims of immortality, she's seen him get hurt. He bleeds like any other man.

"I don't wanna go to school."

Chloe blinks out of her trance. She's slipped down another rabbit hole, and her coffee's grown cold beside her copy of the King James Bible.

She opens her arms for her daughter. "Why not, monkey?" she asks as neutrally as possible. The past few days haven't been easy for Trixie, who's had to learn that both Charlotte and Pierce are dead, not to mention the PG-rated version of her own mother's latest brush with death.

Trixie weasels onto her lap, all gangly limbs and warm, reassuring weight. Chloe buries her nose in daughter's hair and breathes deep. It won't be long before Trixie doesn't want to climb all over her like this.

"Brayden's being mean to me."

Brayden, Brayden, Brayden... Try as she might, Chloe can't remember the boy's face, and wonders if that makes her a bad mother.

"What's he doing, baby?"

"He told everyone you're not a cop anymore because you..." She whispers, "Because you killed somebody. That's not true, is it?"

"I didn't kill anyone." Not for lack of trying, but still. "But I'm on a little break during the investigation. Tell you what, I'll talk to Miss Rawlins about Brayden when I pick you up this afternoon."

"I want Lucifer to do it."

Chloe frowns. She can imagine how Lucifer might "talk" to Rachel Rawlins, who is pretty, perky, and barely old enough to drink. She refuses to think about why that bothers her so much.

"Baby, Lucifer can't—"

"But he always fixes it."

That stops her short. "Since when?"

Trixie gasps and throws her hands over her mouth. "It was supposed to be a secret," she says through her fingers.

"Well," Chloe starts, eyes narrowing, "there aren't any secrets between Lucifer and me." She's such a liar, but Trixie hasn't figured that out yet. "So you can tell me."

Burying her face into Chloe's shoulder, Trixie mumbles against her neck, "He sometimes talks to the other kids for me. I'm not good at it."

That...can't be right. Lucifer hates children and only tolerates Trixie because he grudgingly respects her burgeoning negotiation skills. The thought of him speaking to other children on her Trixie's behalf... Well, she isn't sure whether to cackle or cry.

"I tried texting him, but he didn't reply," Trixie adds morosely.

Chloe's dumbfounded again. Since when do Trixie and Lucifer text one another? She really should be more diligent about monitoring cell phone use.

Suddenly, she's desperate to see Lucifer, even knowing what she knows. And what's stopping her from going to Lux, anyway? Her gut decides it for her. She'll see him. No more hiding, no more agonizing. Grow a pair, Decker.

"I'll talk to him, monkey, see what he can do. But you're going to school, okay?"

"Okay," Trixie grouches.

"Go on. Get dressed or we'll be late."

Hopping down from her mother's lap, Trixie makes her way back to her bedroom. At her doorway, she turns and points a small finger. "He owes me a favor." At that, she disappears into her room.

Jesus, her daughter's been making deals with the Devil.

* * *

After dropping Trixie off at school, Chloe navigates to Lux, her hands clammy against the wheel. She calls Lucifer on speakerphone, but the connection rings several times before going to voicemail.

"_Hello_," the latest version of his answering message purrs, "I'm rather busy at the moment, but do feel free to tell me what it is you desire."

Chloe rolls her eyes. That recording isn't any better with context.

"Look," she says, her voice high and nervous, "you can either talk to me now or in twenty minutes. I'm on my way over."

He doesn't answer or return her call, but she stays the course. A strange sort of anger builds in her chest as she nears Sunset Boulevard. The situation—this whole Lucifer Morningstar is literally Satan _thing_—is no reason for him to ignore her and leave her assuming the worst. That is _not_ what partners do.

Still, that sentiment doesn't stop her from groaning and lightly bashing her forehead against the steering wheel in the parking garage below Lux. What is she doing here?

But, then, somewhere deep down, she knows, doesn't she? If she plucks at that dark part of her soul, she knows exactly what has drawn her. Lucifer has been the biggest mystery of her life, and she loves a good mystery, will dive headfirst into danger for the sake of solving one. And now that she's so close to understanding him... Well, there's a lot she's willing to risk.

A gun and a badge do not a detective make. Instead, as Lucifer tends to suspect, the key ingredient is desire. Good detectives desire to know the truth, no matter what it is. That's either in your blood or it's not. It has _always_ burned in Chloe Decker, and so she finds her bravery and climbs out of the car.

"Hey, Detective Decker! That you?"

Chloe turns. One of Lux's bouncers, a big teddy bear of an old white guy named Henry, waddle-marches across the lot. Eager to be on her way, she smiles tightly. "Hey, Henry."

"Mr. Morningstar's closed everything up for the week."

"Oh, I'm not here for the bar." Her brow furrows. Shutting down Lux isn't like Lucifer.

Henry stops a few feet away and clears his throat. "No private visitations, either."

"Private visitations" is very loaded, but the rejection stings a little, especially after years of easy, line-skipping access to the building. But then she rolls the idea around in her mind and decides refusing all guests makes sense if Lucifer looks anything like he did a few days ago. He wants to run a nightclub, not a haunted house.

Maybe the edict isn't meant to include her, and maybe it is. It doesn't really matter. She's here now, feeling ballsy enough to look the Devil in the eye. She's not in the mood for his bullshit.

Digging into her back pocket, she produces her parking ticket and waves it. "No problem. Can you validate my parking before I leave?"

Henry's immediately sympathetic to her plight. _Got him_, she thinks, and feels only slightly guilty for the manipulation. The flat thirty-dollar fee to park under this building is a crime against humanity, especially when you consider Lux has a cover charge and overpriced drinks.

"Sure thing," he says, and takes the ticket. "I'll be back in a minute."

She watches him retreat. When he's halfway across the lot, she turns and bolts for the elevators. Her heeled boots pound on the concrete, echoing loudly.

"Hey!" Henry shouts. "Stop!" He breathes out in giant puffs as he gives chase.

"Sorry!" she cries, slapping the elevator call button with the flat of her hand. "I promise I won't let him fire you!" And then a hysterical laugh bubbles out of her as she wonders if the Devil might actually be able to _fire_ someone quite literally. Who knows? Anything seems possible now.

By some stroke of luck, the elevator is already on P1, so the doors open immediately. She throws herself inside, heart racing. Henry is a mere fifteen feet away when the doors slide closed.

Using the small panel above the building's generic floor buttons, she punches in the four digits that will carry her to the penthouse. In recent months, and for reasons known only to him, Lucifer changed the PIN from the intentionally-insecure 0000 to something more exclusive and difficult to remember. But Chloe knows the number by heart, and the elevator jerks skyward.

"Oh my God," she laughs, collapsing against the back wall. And then again, "_Oh my God._" Busting in like the Kool-Aid Man isn't part of her usual repertoire. If this were any other situation involving any other people, Lucifer would be cheering on her temerity, but it's only her and her resolve comes and goes in sickening waves.

The elevator shakes to a stop, and the doors open with a _ding_. No going back now. She steps into the penthouse.

"Lucifer?" she calls quietly. "It's me."

Sweat beads at her neck, and gooseflesh prickles across her arms. She's not sure what she should expect, but is relieved to find no white sheets covering the furniture. Maybe she's crazy, but the thought that Lucifer might leave has been more terrifying than the truth of who he is.

She looks left and right, taking in the extravagant bar, piano, library, and living area. Recent discoveries put the penthouse, with its numerous Old World artifacts, in a different light. Suddenly, it looks far less like expensive replicas and far more holy-shit-authentic. Just look at those old books, at that stained glass leading into the bedroom. Wow.

Chloe rounds the tan, leather sofa and freezes, holding back a gasp. Lucifer lies flat on his stomach in nothing but black boxer-briefs. His skin is still that unnatural, ruinous scarlet, from his eerily bald head, to his bare feet. Dark veins twist beneath the surface, and bright red, braided cords of scars layer his back, shoulders, and thighs, as though he's been whipped many times.

He is the definition of a monster, but knowing this doesn't diminish the strange sense of protectiveness that grabs hold of her lungs and tugs. "Lucifer," she whispers, and steps closer. His face is turned toward the back of the sofa, nearly buried into the crevice. "Are you okay? Are you awake?"

No response.

Empty scotch bottles are strewn about the floor. Orange pill bottles and drug paraphernalia litter the glass coffee table: half-smoked joints, pipes, and what looks suspiciously like the biggest brick of heroin she's ever seen. Just laying right out there.

Any other time, she'd be appalled. But nothing here reminds her of Lucifer's hedonistic benders. This reeks of self-medication.

Whether he's asleep or deep in narcosis, he doesn't stir. Far from being terrified of the Devil, she is terrified of his stillness and the dried bloodstains that have soaked into the fine leather. Now that she knows who he is, what could possibly reduce the force of nature that is Lucifer Morningstar?

She kneels beside the sofa, careful not to disturb the glass bottles. "I'm going to sit with you, okay?" She considers turning him over and checking for wounds, but worries she might do more harm than good. What does she know about supernatural injury or pain?

Her palm damp and fingers trembling, she places a hand on Lucifer's bicep, careful to avoid what looks like a half-healed knife wound. The muscle twitches, startling her, then settles. His devilish flesh is rough and granulated, like fruit leather or animal hide, and feverishly warm.

"Please be okay," Chloe murmurs.

She doesn't move for a long time. Her feet fall asleep beneath her. As she watches the shallow rise and fall of Lucifer's maimed back, she is strangely out-of-body, everywhere and nowhere.

As she waits, she has time to think again about all the signs there have been over the years, all the clues. A mantra cycles through her brain: _He's the Devil, the Devil, the Devil_. But somewhere else, somewhere deeper, she thinks it doesn't matter. He is more than the stories others have made up about him. He is more than his hair-raising family. He deserves someone on his side. Why _not_ her?

Shadows shift beyond the penthouse, until high noon arrives and devours them. Sometime later, Lucifer stirs and releases a deep, troubled groan.

"Shh, shh, shh," Chloe hushes, like she does when Trixie's sick and buried beneath blankets. "I'm here."

Lucifer mumbles incoherently. And then, "De-Detective?"

"I'm here," she says again, caressing his rough skin.

Lucifer breathes quietly. She thinks he's fallen asleep again, until he says quietly, "I don't want you to see me like this." His words are thick, but intelligible.

"Too bad," she whispers.

"This face isn't meant for you."

"I can handle it."

Slowly, careful not to move his body, he turns his head. She forces herself to look at him, and he regards her with eyes lit by dancing hellfire. As much as he may say he doesn't want her here, there's a challenge in his gaze that she thinks he wants her to meet. He expects her to run away, screaming, but he hopes she doesn't, too.

"Why are you here?" he rasps.

"Because you're my best friend." Chloe dares to touch his bare head. The burnt flesh there is uneven and shifts disconcertingly under the weight of her hand. "I told you. You don't scare me."

"But how?"

She shrugs, a tender expression softening her. "I know you." Swallowing hard, she blinks away tears. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt? I would've come sooner."

"I'll be fine. I'm just...healing slowly."

"Are you supposed to heal fast?"

"I wouldn't have been the lord of Hell for long if I'd ended up like this every time some upstart tried to off me."

"Right," she breathes, trying desperately to keep from falling down that rabbit hole. _Of course_ there's violence and politics in Hell. Lots of politicians, too, no doubt. "What do you need me to do?" She glances around his apartment, as if by looking she might conjure a hospital room and doctor schooled in the supernatural. "I know some first aid."

"I'm all right. Go home."

"And leave you all alone? Not a chance."

"Don't be stubborn. Maybe I won't look like..._this_, next time you see me." He flashes her a fragile, awkward smile that sends a chill down her spine. "There's no denying I'm much more dashing normally."

"I couldn't care less what you look like right now," she admonishes, her voice sounding unnervingly like her mother's on the brink of meltdown. "I just want you to be okay."

He searches her face. "You're not lying, are you?"

"Of course I'm not lying," she retorts.

"Fine." Rolling a shoulder, he winces. "Light a joint for me, will you?" He squints. "Take a drag while you're at it."

Chloe turns to the coffee table, flicks open a nearby Zippo lighter, and brings one of the half-smoked blunts back to life. She doesn't hesitate to take a puff before handing it to him. Twenty years have passed since she last smoked up—once, back in her acting days. Her throat and lungs burn with a vengeance until she hacks into the crook of her elbow.

The sofa shudders beside her. It takes her a moment to realize Lucifer is laughing. It's a chilling sight in his devil face.

"You're an asshole," she sighs, and then laughs, too. This situation couldn't be anymore bizarre. If she looks too closely at it, she fears she might fall apart.

"I'm going to sit up," he says.

He waves her away when she leans up on her knees to help him. Her heart lurches when she realizes he was _warning_ her, not requesting assistance. As if she's a deer that might dart away from any sudden movements.

Sitting on his sofa in nothing but his underwear, the Devil is somewhere between larger-than-life and so oddly incongruous as to be cartoonish. His long legs settle beside her, where she still kneels on the floor. She doesn't miss how he digs his toes into the plush rug to hide charred-black nails.

Lucifer affects sobriety. Forced as it is, he does look more whole for it. There are no gaping wounds on his torso, no signs of where all the bloodstains have come from. So, where is he injured?

The room begins to smell of marijuana, thinly-veiled with vanilla. He expertly puffs smoke rings before offering the joint to her again. "No, thanks," she says. "I drove here."

He refrains from poking fun at her, like he normally would. "Henry wasn't supposed to let anyone in," he remarks. "_You_ weren't even supposed to make it into the garage."

"Don't blame Henry. It's not his fault I made it up."

"That I don't doubt," Lucifer sighs. "I should've changed the code, but I didn't think—" He looks out the window, smoke billowing out his nose.

"You didn't think I'd come see you," she finishes.

They're quiet for several moments before Chloe puts a hand on his knee, which is endearingly knobby in a way that helps her accept the color of his skin. He twitches, his eyes darting to the point of contact, but he doesn't move away. "Let me help you," she pleads.

"I told you, Detective. You can help me by going home." But when he leans back against the sofa, a barely-controlled panic contorts his already-warped features.

Her fingers dig into him. "What's wrong?"

He hesitates before admitting, "My wings. It's always the bloody wings."

"Your..." She frowns. "Your wings?"

If he has any, Chloe doesn't see them, but even so, more LEGO bricks snap together. All his complaints about his wings these past few months... Oh, and the loft. In her eagerness to put that day behind her—and her inability to think of much other than Lucifer's face and Pierce's corpse—she somehow forgot about all the feathers.

She sits back on her heels, her jaw slack. "We flew, didn't we? Up to the rooftop. Those were _your_ feathers."

"Yes."

"You saved me."

"No, I brought all of this into your life," he corrects.

What a ridiculous belief. "Just let me see them."

As uncomfortable as he is, her bossiness seems to amuse him. "Detective," he chuckles weakly, "at least buy me a drink first." The skin where his brows normally are lifts high on his forehead. Licking his thumb and index finger, he snuffs out the remaining nub of cigarette and tosses it back onto the coffee table.

"I'm not going to let you sit here in pain when you saved my life."

"Do you think you _owe_ me?" he snaps. "Because you most certainly do not. Anyway, don't you suppose you're getting enough of an eyeful as it is? Let's not push it, shall we?"

"I'm looking right at you, aren't I? And I can handle your wings. I already saw the replica, remember?"

"It isn't the same. I've no desire to turn your brain into mush."

"Don't flatter yourself."

He snorts, taken aback. Despite his fiery gaze, he regards her coolly, hunting for some sign of weakness. "Very well," he acquiesces a moment later, and pushes to his feet with a grunt. "It's your own mind, I suppose. Stand back, please."

Chloe rises and takes several steps back. When he's satisfied with her distance, he bends and grips his knees, his shoulders rolling. A gruesome crack resounds, and he lets out a string of curses, some in English and others not.

One minute, the Devil stoops, dark and snarling. In the next, Chloe shrinks away from the explosion of raw matter that has taken shape. Her ears lightly pop around a soft flutter.

Lucifer was right. No replica could ever prepare her for his true wings, which span at least ten feet on either side of his body. The pale feathers, though coated in a layer of dust, still seem to catch all the light in the room, mirroring it back with a warm glow. Heat rolls off him in waves, as if he's burning some fuel from within.

"Happy now?" he quips.

"Holy shit."

"Literally that, yes." He flashes a grin before his head lolls and his wings droop.

Chloe rushes forward, snagging him around the waist as he topples. She's unable to ignore the cat-tongue roughness of his skin as his size and weight draw her down to the sofa with him. He moans in agony as his wings are crushed beneath them. His body gives one last defiant twitch before going slack.

Scrambling away, she openly gawks. There's nothing remotely human about the devil-angel hybrid before her. It's almost impossible to see the man she knows beneath all these layers. Yet, isn't this exactly who he's always said he is, deep down—the Devil, a punished and punishing angel?

Awe wears off in increments, until she can finally recognize how damaged the feathers actually are. What a second before looked like pink and red patterns in his feather vanes is now obviously dried blood.

Circling him, she finds the source of at least some of the blood, where his wings peek up above the back of the sofa. These are not just any wounds, either. She knows a _gunshot_ wound when she sees one, even among all the plumage.

What she can see of his back is a minefield of dried blood and torn and blown out feathers. The wounds have clotted, but the surrounding flesh, which is clearly meant to be pale white, is nearly as angry and red as the skin on the rest of his body.

It's only now that she realizes how dire the situation with Pierce was, the great price Lucifer has paid for her life. He used his own body to shield her. It's the ultimate gesture a cop's partner can make on the job. Tears sting her eyes.

"How could you be so stupid," she chides, unsure whether her ire is directed at herself or the unconscious angel.

Cleaning these wounds will be a very big job, one that's she's not at all equipped to handle, even at the best of times. But who else does he have? Who else knows the truth—and, more importantly, _believes_ it? She glances at a clock on a nearby wall and feels like she's being torn in two. Trixie's school will let out soon, and there's still Brayden to deal with.

She rounds the sofa again and leans forward to touch Lucifer's shoulder, which she carefully shakes. His eyes snap open immediately, and she stumbles back, her calves bumping against the coffee table. They stare at each other.

"I have to pick Trixie up," she says, apologetic. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Lucifer, eyes half-lidded, looks away. "There's no need. As I've explained, I _will_ heal."

"But you'll heal faster if I help you, won't you?"

He grimaces, but doesn't lie. "The bullets are a problem. But—"

"No buts." Chloe can tell he's mere moments away from banning her return altogether. "Can we make a deal?" she blurts out.

Even if he knows she's playing him, he can't help perking up. She barely contains her shudder as his red eyes swivel back to her. The way his wings splay around him, it almost looks like he sits upon a throne, a red lord of otherworldly origins. How she ever missed the authority built into his bones, she'll never know.

"You have my attention, Detective. What is it you desire?" He quirks one of those hairless brows. "And what will you offer in exchange?"

"I'll clean you up if you'll do whatever it is you do for Trixie at school."

He snorts, disappointed. "That's hardly _your_ desire. In fact, I believe I already owe your offspring. More importantly, why hasn't she learned to keep secrets? No one likes a gossip."

How is she having this conversation with Satan?

"She's _nine_, and I'm her _mom_."

"Yes, well."

"She's having trouble with a boy named Brayden." Oh, God, is it wrong to bring down the Devil on small children?

"Ah, yes, Brayden McNeil. A repeat offender." Chloe feels less guilty now. "Foolish boy, but then he is the son of a rather spectacularly amoral solicitor, so what can one expect? Say no more."

"So, it's a deal?"

"It's a deal," he affirms. "Tell Beatrice it will be taken care of by tomorrow. Remind her I will not owe her after this."

"There's no rush."

"You've my word, Detective. Now, be a dear and fetch me another Dalmore before you go."

As she hands him his absurdly expensive whisky, she forces herself to stare into the yawning abyss of his eyes. It's getting easier to do. "You have my word, too," she says. "I'll be back tonight."

Lucifer raises the bottle at her snidely. He doesn't believe her at all.


	4. Shake On It

**04\. SHAKE ON IT**

* * *

Cain aims and squeezes the trigger.

Cain aims and...a man takes the gun away.

The man's slender form towers, so that Cain must look up into his eyes—one crystal blue, the other a black abyss. He is disconcerting to look at: pale white and bald, his arms far too long for his body.

"I am Balor," the man, the creature, says. He grins, revealing broken, yellowed teeth. "Do you wish to be free, child?"

"Free?" Cain asks. "Free from what?"

Balor, who is dressed in nothing but tattered corduroys, lifts a skinny arm, indicating the world around them. It's nighttime, and they're deep in Griffith Park, at an overlook of Los Angeles. Behind Balor, Cain can make out the archangel Amenadiel, where he sits upon a park bench.

"I need to kill him," Cain growls, grasping for the gun Balor has taken.

Balor laughs, snatching the weapon out of reach and holding it high. "You have killed him before, many times. This world is a lie."

To prove it, Balor rests the gun on his palms and whispers a guttural word. The weapon fades into nothingness, there one second, gone the next.

Cain takes a step back, the hairs on his arms standing to attention. "How did you do that?"

"I am the archdemon who rules over this corner of Hell," says Balor. "I do as I please."

"_I'm dead?_" Deep in his gut, Cain knows it's true. Panic seizes him. It wasn't supposed to be like this. "I can't be in Hell!"

"Oh, but you are." Balor offers Cain his hand, mismatched eyes gleaming. "Come, child. I will free you from this nightmare."

Cain hesitates, sensing the gravity of the decision. He's so certain he's never been here before, but something gnaws at him, some sneaking suspicion that he no longer knows himself. Perhaps... Perhaps Balor knows best. They stand there for what may be minutes or hours, until finally Cain puts his hand into the thin man's waiting grasp.

"Yesss," Balor hisses, his uneven grin euphoric. He clamps cool, spindly fingers around Cain's wrist. With an unnaturally strong pull, he yanks Cain off his feet and begins to drag him across the dirt, toward some unknown destination.

Cain cries out, his shoulder burning in protest. He scrabbles against the ground, kicking up dust as he tries to regain his footing, but Balor is strong and doesn't slow enough for him to gain traction.

"You are mine now. I do as I please with you."

A giant, wooden door stands beside a dry shrub, walled in by nothing. Balor holds up his free hand, palm facing outward, and the door bursts open with a resounding crack. Searing heat blasts through the doorway, taking Cain's breath away and drying out his eyes. Balor drags him into a world made gray by smoke and falling ash.

"Where are you taking me?" Cain asks, and chokes on the cloying scent of rotten eggs.

"You may call me Master," Balor responds.

"I am _not_ your slave!" Cain yanks his arm back with all his might and manages to pull free from the other man's grasp. He scurries backward, putting distance between them.

Balor leaps through the air like a frog, closing the gap in an instant. He grips Cain's shoulders and draws him close, until the shorter man is at his mouth, smelling his putrid breath. "You have no bargaining chips here, sweet. This is _my_ domain, and _you_ belong to _me_. You took my hand. We made a deal."

"I didn't know it was a deal! Put me back," Cain pleads. "Please, put me back."

But Balor keeps him.

* * *

"Welcome home!" Balor announces.

The tall man has alternately dragged and yanked him along for what feels like days, only to bring him to a cave tucked into a black mountainside. The room within is appointed with a lone cot and table—and four chains, one for each limb, bolted into the surrounding rock.

There's a tussle as Cain fights with the strength of one who fears for his life. But, as clever as Cain is, Balor is older and shrewder.

Giggling, Balor puts his hands around Cain's neck and squeezes. Cain claws at Balor's fingers, but it's useless. The inescapable sulphurous scent dissipates as no air is drawn into his lungs.

The world goes black.

* * *

When Cain wakes, he's naked and chained, his wrists and ankles stretched so wide that he looks like a starfish. He leans into the cuffs, swallowing around the pain of a bruised windpipe. He needs a plan, any plan, but eons of clever maneuvering on Earth have not prepared him for Hell.

Balor pulls a knife from his pants pocket. Its sharp edge gleams. Hell-forged.

"Please, let me go," Cain whimpers hoarsely. "We can make another deal."

Instead of replying, Balor touches the blade to Cain's chest and begins to carve. Cain screams, while Balor hums a merry, off-key tune.

When the engraving is done, Balor leans forward and licks the blood away. "Your pain is beautiful," he says, rangy fingers caressing the planes of Cain's body. "Think of all the lovely things we'll do together."

It's hard to read the sloped letters upside down, but Cain eventually makes out what has been carved into his flesh: SINNER.

* * *

Demons visit the cave, having their fun. They delight in torture, pricking with needles, paddling with wood boards, drawing blood with dull knives, and still they come for more because there is always more to destroy in him. His body heals from anything injury not done with a Hell-forged blade. His mind, though... Oh, they come for that, too.

It's worst when they pet him like an object and laugh when they turn his body against him. He rides waves of pain and waves of unwanted pleasure, his psyche adrift.

In these moments, long-repressed memories from his earthly life resurface. His mother's face, how she smiled at Abel most. Abel's blood, drying beneath his nails. The beat of Amenadiel's wings as he cornered him by the river and laid God's curse upon his life. And, later, watching his loved ones die, watching their children die, their children's children die. And on and on.

He remembers wars and plagues, the rise and fall of empires. The horror of the atom bomb, and the wonder of Armstrong stepping onto the dusty face of the moon.

Balor kisses his mouth, leaving behind fetid spittle. "I'm so _glad_ I freed you."


	5. Trust Fall

**05\. TRUST FALL**

* * *

Chloe kneels and hugs Trixie. "Be good for Dad, okay?"

"I promise."

"And brush your teeth before you go to bed."

Trixie scrunches her nose. "Okay." She smiles, waves, and mumbles a "Bye, Mom" before dragging her backpack into Dan's apartment. A moment later, there's a cry of "Cake!", and Trixie can be heard running.

Chloe straightens. "You're going to ruin her dinner."

Grinning, Dan leans against his teal doorframe. "Calories don't count at her age."

"Thanks for taking her on such short notice. I know, with Charlotte and everything..."

Dan shrugs a shoulder. "Trixie's a great distraction. Anyway, you know I never mind."

It's true, he doesn't. Dan is a much better single father than he ever was a partnered one. He shows up, usually on time, no excuses or complaints. It's a fact that sometimes makes Chloe's heart hurt, and at other times makes her want to spit in his face. Why was he so bad at those things when they were married? What is it about _her_ that inspired such mediocrity?

Not that she wishes they were still married. They're better as friends, and, as much as the word makes her want to gag, _co-parents_. There are whole days that pass where Chloe forgets, or at least doesn't quite acknowledge, that she created a new human with the man. The thought of having sex with him now is a little too weirdly incestuous.

He's made a life for himself in a one-bedroom apartment situated in Ocean Park. He pays too much for too little space that needs renovating, but it suits him, and Trixie returns to Chloe with tales of Xbox sessions, friendly street vendors, and sand castles on the beach.

Dan clears his throat. "Hey, I know it's none of my business, but this last-minute schedule change, it, uh, doesn't happen to have anything to do with Lucifer, does it?"

She stands a little taller and adjusts her shirt, preparing herself for the argument that's brewing. "I'm going to see him, yeah."

"Right," Dan grunts. "Think he'll explain why he left you high and dry and expected the rest of us to lie for him?"

"Is this why you've been calling me?"

He shrugs. That's a yes.

"You don't know everything that's going on." And can't. He'll never believe it. Just, she thinks, like she never believed it. In that way, she and Dan are alike: to see is to believe. If there's nothing to see, de facto atheism, it is.

"Enlighten me." Stepping out of the apartment, he shuts the door behind him. "We've known him for almost two years, Chlo, and while I know he's done some good work, and, hey, he can be an okay guy sometimes, he also does shady shit. Never been able to prove it, but we both know it."

Lowering his voice, he hisses, "That crime scene was a goddamn mess, there's a _murder weapon_ missing, and now, like some stupid rookie, I've committed a _felony_. For a guy I don't even always like."

She almost pours salt into old wounds. Almost. Almost asks how covering for a man who's had her back more times than she can count is worse than stealing evidence or gaslighting your wife until she thinks she's crazy.

Instead, she puts a soothing hand on her ex-husband's arm. "All I'm going to say is he saved me. Again. And now he needs me, so I'm going to be there for him."

He sighs. "I get it. He's your partner, and you've got this...weird thing together. Just be careful. You know, Pierce—"

"Lucifer is _nothing_ like Pierce," she snaps.

Dan lifts his hands in surrender. "Sorry."

"It's fine. Look, I'll pick up Trixie from school on Monday, okay? Don't forget she has a spelling test tomorrow."

Then she turns on her heel and leaves.

* * *

"Back already?"

Chloe pulls a box of medical supplies from the back seat of her car. Banking it against her hip, she smiles at Henry sheepishly. "I promise I'm supposed to be here this time."

"Mr. Morningstar texted me."

"Great. Sorry about earlier."

"Part of the job," he says, shaking his head. "You wouldn't believe the crazy things people do to get into that penthouse."

"I bet," she says dryly, and heads toward the elevator.

The penthouse's living room faces east and is dim when she enters, lit only by the glow of afternoon in the distance. She sets the box of supplies on the bar and turns on the overhead light. Lucifer has vacated the bloodstained sofa, having managed to move to his bedroom, where he again lies face down, sound asleep. This time, his battered wings are unfurled and drape down to the floor on both sides of the bed. The tip of his right wing spreads out so far that it touches the top step of the small set of stairs that lead into his bedroom.

Chloe tiptoes around the feathers carefully. Turning on his bedside lamp, she takes a moment to assess the damage. His skin is as scorched as before, still red, still raw. But his wings... As broken as they are, they're breathtakingly beautiful, stretched out like this. She can see how they might be powerful and deadly when whole, but right now it looks like a harsh wind could strip him bare.

It's far worse than she thought. Single, bloodied points of entry, damage done by pistols, pale by comparison to the ghastly scattershot patches left by rapid-firing submachine guns. Lucifer's body is riddled with lead.

Because of me, she thinks.

As if sensing her presence, Lucifer blinks awake. "You're here."

She hates how surprised he sounds.

His flaming eyes are bright in the low light of the room. Strange how quickly they've come to seem normal, just another part of Lucifer, who Chloe has always known was more complex than his rich playboy trappings. Not that she ever could have guessed he was _this_ complex.

"Detective? Why are you crying?" he asks, his head raising an inch from a black, silk pillowcase before dropping back tiredly.

Chloe wipes at her face. "It's really bad, Lucifer."

"I do feel a bit like swiss cheese," he jokes.

If only. That'd mean the bullets went through. As it is, she can tell they're embedded, deep. Getting them out is going to be ugly.

"Is there no one better who can help?"

"Well, Mazikeen might have helped once, but I don't feel inclined to trust her with sharp objects right now."

"Oh," she says, a little faint as realization dawns. "Maze really is a demon."

"Yes," he replies, oblivious to how unsettled she is. "And, well, there's only one doctor who knows what I am, and she's made it abundantly clear she's not helping with this sort of thing anymore. Not after last time."

After last time? "Who?" Chloe asks, curious.

"Doctor Linda, of course."

"Wow." Old conversations with her therapist friend take on new meaning in her head. "Okay. I'm just worried I might...make things worse."

"Oh, you will," he says in that sarcastically-cheery way of his. "The pain is excruciating around you, but you are right, the wounds need cleaning if I'm not going to walk around with heavy metal for an age. And I can't bloody well reach the buggers myself."

She frowns, mindful of his feathers as she steps closer. "What do you mean 'the pain is excruciating' around me?"

He smiles bitterly. "I once told you that you make me vulnerable. I meant that quite literally. Under normal circumstances, I'm nearly invincible. With you by my side, I'm almost as _meaty_ as any other human."

"Is that... Is that why you were so surprised that you bled when I shot you?"

"One of the greatest shocks of my life."

Chloe leans against the bedroom wall. "So, I'm basically the worst person for the job."

"You don't have to do it," he says, his voice soft.

She swallows and pushes off the wall. "I just don't want to hurt you." An apparent impossibility.

"I'll be fine. You'll find I'm very good at handling pain. But I won't fault you for backing out." He tilts a wing back with a grunt and reaches a hand toward her. Seeing his inflamed skin, he grimaces and lets his arm drop.

"I brought supplies," she says awkwardly, and slips out of his bedroom.

When everything she brought is set out on the floor beside the bed, she wonders if she has enough rubbing alcohol. Enough of anything.

Lucifer seems to follow her concerns and snickers. "You and your plans," he teases. "Everything will be fine. I will have a few of those Percs I see there, though. You may make me bleed, but, never fear, you do wonders for my highs, as well."

"I think they're expired."

"Don't care."

"They're leftovers from a back injury Dan had." She shakes two pills from the bottle into his hand. He flexes his fingers greedily until she adds two more to his palm. "I'll get you some wat—" she starts, then sighs when he downs the pills with scotch.

"Judge not, Detective."

Standing at the foot of the bed, she stares at the carnage. "I'm not sure where to begin," she admits.

"Wherever inspiration strikes. It's all going to bloody hurt."

Knowing this, Chloe works left to right across his body, weaving back and forth to give him small breaks. She plucks feathers, cleans exposed flesh, digs into torn tissue with forceps, sweat dripping down her back and beading across his. When she reaches for the sewing kit, Lucifer stops her, his eyes glassy and wild.

"It'll heal," he croaks.

"You're losing a _lot_ of blood, Lucifer." As though they're in some grindhouse horror, it's begun to seep into her jeans and drip onto the floor. Discarded feathers drown in it.

"Leave it. Please. I can't take it."

She works more quickly then. The blood flows freely to the tune of Lucifer's agonized moans and the _tink_ of bullets dropping into the Pyrex dish she found in his kitchen cabinet. Twice, she changes sterile gloves when they become too slippery.

Hours later, when what she believes is the last bullet fragment joins the others in the glass dish, she leans back from where she sits across his bare, red thighs and tears off her gloves. His wings, the feathers painted a scarlet that matches his skin, look worse than when she began. Her face is wet with sweat and tears.

Rising, she goes to the side of the bed and kneels by Lucifer's head. His eyes are screwed shut, and he breathes hard and fast, as if he's in shock.

Chloe touches his cheek, and he opens his Hell-filled eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"It's all right," he whispers between shivers. "I... Thank you."

It's so strange, hearing and seeing that dulcet voice come out of this ravaged version of her partner. He speaks to her in the tone he reserves for their most quiet, intimate moments: soothingly, gently. It helps her see past the nightmarish visage, to whatever it is in him that always calls to her. His soul, maybe.

Because souls are real.

She slowly leans forward and presses her lips to the too-warm, leathery skin of his forehead. When she leans back, he searches her face, and she smiles at him softly. "What are partners for?"

Chloe watches, spellbound, as his devilish form fades and melts into his body, leaving smooth, pale olive skin in its wake.

"Oh," she breathes. "There you are."

Lucifer gives her a bemused expression, then looks at his hand. Relief smooths some of the lines in his face. "It would seem you took the red right off the Devil. I was afraid that killing..."

"That was self-defense."

"No, it wasn't. It was—"

"For me," she whispers. "It was for me. Thank you."

He says nothing in return, only reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She's a cop and not supposed to feel so comfortable with extrajudicial killings, but there's always been a barbaric protectiveness between them, a willingness to wipe out each other's enemies, as if they are threats to themselves. It started with the record producer Jimmy Barnes, and she doesn't suspect it will end with Pierce. It should frighten Chloe, this connection they have, but it doesn't. Not at all.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, she considers Lucifer's wounded wings. Just because he looks more like himself doesn't mean he's out of the woods yet. "You said you're vulnerable only when you're around me. Does that mean it'll help if I leave?"

He takes some time to answer her, but finally sighs, "It would."

"Okay." She stands and begins cleaning up the mess she's made. The bloodied floors beneath his flagging wings will have to wait.

Lucifer grabs the bullet-filled Pyrex from where she left it on his nightstand. He gives the contents a rattle. "Fancy a pair of earrings?"

Clutching at the necklace that's found its way back around her neck, she looks at him like he's grown another head. "What I want is for you to never be shot again, by me or anyone else."

He lets the dish fall back to the table with a clunk. "Good thing we don't go rushing into harm's way all the time, then, isn't it?"

Chloe huffs tiredly. "Can I get you anything before I go?"

Lucifer sighs into his pillow. If she ignores his wings, he's very easy to look at now, all deep, dark eyes, black wavy hair, and thickening scruff. _Tempting_ might be the word, and Chloe realizes she and most of the metropolitan area might be forgiven for thinking it. He wouldn't be much of a devil if he didn't inspire things he shouldn't. She averts her eyes.

"Will you..." he begins. "Will you return tomorrow?"

"Of course. Okay, well, take it easy tonight."

She turns to leave, but he calls her, "Chloe." She turns back. "You've taken this better than I could have ever hoped. I'm not entirely sure how to tell you... Well, how _grateful_ I am."

"Yeah, well, don't get comfortable yet. I have a lot of questions that need answers."

Lucifer hums in agreement, already sinking into sleep.

* * *

It's almost eleven when Chloe parks in her assigned spot outside her complex. The nearest street lamp is several buildings away, which means the path to her complex is bathed in long shadows.

She hesitates outside her car. Even as a child, she was never afraid of the dark or of monsters under her bed, but the dark is different when you know supernatural beings roam the Earth, when there's no Glock resting at your hip.

Holding up her phone, she pierces the darkness with her flashlight. One deep, fortifying breath, and she makes a mad dash for her front door. She laughs nervously when she fumbles and drops her keys.

Inside, Chloe secures all the locks—for what little good they can do—turns on all the lights, including the one in Trixie's room, and turns on the television. A news anchor says the words "Marcus Pierce," and though she should probably listen to the segment, she flips channels until she finds a buxom woman kneading dough. Baking is about as much excitement as she can take right now.

And then, suddenly, she's running into the bathroom to throw up. She's not been eating enough, and bile comes out, then dry, acidic heaves that make her throat burn. She gasps raggedly, pressing her forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet seat.

Learning and accepting the truth hasn't been easy, but today was too much, too real, too fast. She can still feel the warmth of Lucifer's blood through the nitrile gloves, the wet, spongy sounds his flesh made as she cut and dug. Despite the Percocet and alcohol, he was awake for it all, as evidenced by his moans and the way his feathers twitched, fanned, and contracted around her hands. Living parts on a living man.

To see the divine, to touch it, is overwhelming enough. But to carve into _Lucifer_? It was like carving into herself. Even if it was what had to be done, it makes her sob now.

When her stomach settles, she peels off her blood-soaked jeans and sweat-dampened top. After changing into pajamas, she wraps herself in a blanket and returns to the living room. Beneath the yellow glow of lamps and the blue light of the TV, she sleeps fitfully.

* * *

The _Los Angeles Times_ headline fills a third of her mobile screen. Bleary-eyed after a rough night on the couch, Chloe reads through the steam coming off her coffee.

_Mayor shakes up LAPD following lieutenant scandal, death_

Olivia Monroe, the LAPD's former lieutenant and L.A.'s first female chief of police, is out. The former deputy chief, a man by the name of Ezra Mitchell, is in, having been promoted. A new deputy has been instated. Garcia has officially replaced Pierce.

Other changes are rumored to be afoot, with the journalist writing the article calling it a case of "administrative musical chairs." Yesterday, activists held a demonstration outside City Hall, where they clogged up Spring Street as they demanded explanations.

When Dan calls, Chloe answers on the first ring. "Have you seen _The Times_?" he asks.

"I was just reading it. Looks like Monroe had to fall on her sword." Chloe sighs, "I never liked her, but she wasn't the problem."

"Yeah," Dan agrees. "You notice how there's no mention of the FBI or DOJ getting involved?"

Chloe frowns. "You're right." Something is very suspect about that. Pierce's network of minions stretched far beyond the walls of the LAPD, and with John Barrow in custody, there should be _something_ to go off of. "No way there's no corruption case here." The feds should be crawling all over it.

"Robbie says they're smoothing everything over, that it'll be like nothing's happened when we get back."

"But the evidence—"

"Might be getting destroyed while we're stuck on asses at home."

"You think the mayor's involved?"

"Anybody could be involved. I'm not even talking to most of the guys until we know more. We gotta keep our heads down, Chlo."

"And let Pierce get away with everything?" Chloe sputters.

"That asshole didn't get away with anything. He's dead," Dan says firmly. "But there may be a power vacuum in the Sinnerman's wake. We have no idea who we're up against. Maybe we'll get lucky and nobody will take his place."

Neither of them believes that, in which case it will be hard to know who to trust when they return to work.

A knock on the door startles Chloe so thoroughly that she nearly spills her coffee. Setting the mug aside, she stands and tiptoes to the front window, where she peeks around her curtains.

To her surprise, Lucifer waits at her doorstep. He's his usual sharply-dressed self, lean body neatly tucked away in a crisp, white shirt and black three-piece suit. No red skin, no wings. Save for a little paleness that makes the skin beneath his eyes appear darker, he is the picture of health. She's almost sick with relief herself.

"Hey, Dan, I gotta go," Chloe announces, and hangs up before he can say goodbye.

She opens the door. "You've gotten a lot better about knocking."

Lucifer folds his hands in front of him, at least somewhat contrite. "Yes, well, in light of recent events, it seemed appropriate."

"I was going to come see you." She's shocked he's out of bed. She hasn't even showered yet. Then again, it's almost ten, so that's on her.

"Right. But why bother when I can save you the trip? Unless..." He looks distraught. "Do you not want me here, at your home? I can leave."

She waves him in. "What? No. Don't be stupid."

If the Devil ever wanted to do her harm, there were a million times he could have done something. Not that he looks like the Devil now. He's just...Lucifer, and the warm familiarity of him makes her want to wilt.

Closing the door, she turns to him, her eyes narrowing, as if squinting might help her find the Devil and angel beneath his skin. He leans back and regards her in return, brows raised in question.

"Detective?"

"You really do heal fast." Understatement of the century.

"Of course." He smiles, relaxing. "It helps that I was in very capable hands, as well. Though I do hope the next time we play doctor, it's under different circumstances."

The casual innuendo sucks the air out of the room.

Pointing a finger skyward, Lucifer pleads for patience. "To my credit, I realized as I was saying it that you would find it inappropriate."

Chloe's snort is loud in the room. "Do you want breakfast?" Suddenly starving, she turns and heads into the kitchen.

Lucifer stays where he is. "Actually, I'm only here to make sure you're all right."

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asks, ignoring how her pulse leaps into a gallop. "I wasn't the one bleeding out."

"Yes, but even you have to admit there's been a lot to take in. I mean, all women must admit that about me at some point, but still."

He _must_ be feeling better.

Rolling her eyes in mock dismay, she pulls a cutting board and paring knife out of a drawer. She plucks an apple from the fruit bowl and begins slicing it into eighths. "So, you think I should be freaking out."

She is, at least about his familial connections, but she's not going to admit it to him. If there's one thing she understands, it's that you don't get to choose your family.

Lucifer's face lights with amusement as she hands him an apple slice. "Freaking out does tend to happen when one eats from the tree of knowledge." He bites into the fruit with a devious grin.

Chloe waves her knife at him in conversation. "The Bible doesn't say it was an apple that"—_oh_—"that you tempted Eve with."

"Mm, it wasn't. It was a pomegranate. And _tempt_ is a very strong word. Adam was always dead from the neck up. I brought Eve a basket of fruit, and she threw herself at me. Really, I'm the victim in that whole fiasco." He steals another apple slice and looks pointedly at her kitchen table. "Been doing some light reading, I see." He huffs in disgust. "Is that the _Divine Comedy_?"

"So Eden was real?"

"Hmm?" He turns back to her. "Oh, not exactly, though the people were very much real. Not made of dust, though, I can tell you that, and the dinosaurs were long gone by then." He hesitates, eyeing her carefully. "Do you remember what I told you about Pierce, Detective?"

Chloe doesn't want to talk about this, but knows they must.

"About _Cain_," she says tightly, nodding. She leans back against the edge of the sink. This, far more than anything having to do with Lucifer, she's been trying to avoid. "I didn't believe you."

"No one ever does," Lucifer says with a sad smile. "Not since the Age of Enlightenment, anyway."

"How what I supposed to believe you, Lucifer? You've always said the strangest things. It just seemed like you were making up some story about him because you were—"

"Certifiably insane?"

"Jealous."

He pauses. "Be that as it may, I didn't lie to you."

"No," she agrees bitingly, "but you didn't do anything to _make_ me believe you, either. You _know_ I need proof."

"Well, how the bloody hell was I supposed to give it to you?" he snaps. "I didn't have my devil face until I pierced Pierce."

"You had your wings, though! That's all you've complained about for months. Why didn't you just show me them? I would have believed everything you said."

A dark expression pulls at his mouth. "The wings aren't me—or, well, I didn't believe them to be. I haven't always considered them mine, exactly. As I told you in the past, I _cut them off_. But they were pinned on me again by my father, or maybe for some other reason having to do with my own ridiculous beliefs. At any rate, it didn't feel right to show them to you. It would have felt like a lie, and for the millionth time, I. Don't. Lie."

"You really cut them off?"

"Oh, several times. I was a right feather factory for a while there."

The thought is horrifying after the trauma of last night. "Don't you ever do that again," she admonishes. "They're a part of you."

Lucifer looks uncomfortable. "I plan to keep them now. They've proven useful."

She nods, knowing this is the most she'll get from him on that subject. "Why do you think it would have been a lie to show them to me?"

"I'm no angel," he tells her, shrugging.

"Well, you're not a monster, either."

He huffs, but says nothing.

"I wish you had shown me," she repeats quietly.

"Yes, well, I do, too, now, don't I?" he replies, crestfallen. "Would've apparently saved us a great deal of bloody trouble. Figuratively and literally."

"I just..." Chloe fidgets, balling her hands into the old, stretched Lakers shirt she slept in. "I just don't get how you could let me be with him."

Tears well and spill over, falling to the hardwood. She's beyond tired of crying, but she doesn't try to hide her pain. There's a fragile part of her that feels betrayed, not by an angel or the Devil, but by her best friend, by someone who, at times, has felt like so much more. And she realizes she desperately needs him to understand this. Needs him to know that all the miscommunication and secrets pale by comparison to this: that he didn't protect her heart when he could, when, at some unknown point, she very foolishly gave it to him for safekeeping.

Lucifer rounds the counter and stands before her, his face tight. "I drove you to him," he despairs. "And then you were...happy."

"But it was a lie."

He winces. "He was a very good liar, good enough to trick the Devil. For a while, I thought— Actually, I thought I saw myself in him. Which is precisely what he wanted me to see."

At her bemused expression, he continues, "You have to understand, Cain murdered his brother, which was evil, certainly, but then my father punished him for _thousands_ of years. Deserving or not, a punishment of that length will...change a man, turn him into something he never expected to be.

"He was the Sinnerman, but then, I am the Devil. And then, well, he met you. And I thought he was changing, that _you_ were changing him, because, whether you realize it or not, Detective, you do have that effect on people. It seemed wrong of me to judge him when...when a second chance is all _anyone_ wants. I wanted to believe a man like Cain could deserve a second chance." He frowns. "I should have known better."

They're quiet, then, as the confession settles over them, reshaping their perceptions. Chloe wonders how much of Lucifer's understanding of Cain was pure projection. He is always searching for, and sabotaging, his own redemption.

"I apologize for any hurt I caused," Lucifer says. "It was never my intention to—I would _never_ hurt you, if I could help it."

"I know that." He has a funny way of going about it sometimes, but Chloe knows it's true. She draws in a deep breath and scrubs at her face. "At least we don't have to worry about him anymore."

"I almost wish I was back in Hell," Lucifer rumbles, and a chill skitters down Chloe's spine. A moment later, he clears his throat. "Well, despite the drama I've brought into your life, you seem to be of sound mind and body, so I should be on my way. Lux has a shipment of—"

"Do you have to be there for it?" Chloe interrupts. Giving into impulse, she reaches forward and grabs his hand.

"No," he answers quickly, looking at their fingers.

"Then let's do something together."

He lifts a suggestive brow. "Such as?"

"I don't know," she laughs, feeling shy. "I'd just like to get to know you. No more secrets."

"No more secrets," he ponders. "I think I'd like that, Detective."

* * *

There are no stars over L.A., or at least not any that can be easily seen. The sky is a dull, mud-mottled purple. Instead, L.A.'s twinkling stars are its lights, which spread for miles to the north, south, and east. To the west, the Pacific is cold and black.

On the rooftop of Lucifer's building, Chloe leans back in a plush lounge chair, breathing in the night air, her hair shifting in the breeze. Beside her, Lucifer reclines similarly, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed.

The day has gone well, even if it has been emotionally and mentally draining. For the first time in a long time things almost make sense to Chloe. Maze is a demon. Lucifer's brother Amenadiel is an angel. Charlotte Richards, for a time, was a literal goddess. (Talk about a notch in Dan's bedpost.)

She's not that bothered by the truth, crazy as it is. Knowing is better than not knowing.

That doesn't mean it isn't a lot to take in, but she's managing. After years of compartmentalizing Lucifer's, well, _Luciferness_, it's not so hard to compartmentalize more. Lucifer's the Devil? Sure, let's throw in her former roommate, a demon, while we're at it. Why not?

Of course, as much as they started the day with the goal of "no more secrets," she also senses they've barely brushed the surface of what there is to know. With basic facts covered, they stuck to illuminating, but rather safe, topics, like how on Earth Lucifer has been solving crime in his own, devilish way all this time. Cleverly, it turns out, but also fiendishly. Maybe a little illegally. Or a lot.

It should bother her more than it does.

"Ah, someone needs a top-up." Lucifer leans over and whisks her wine glass out of her hand before she can protest. He fills it to the halfway point, then shrugs, tips the bottle back, and chugs the remaining contents.

Chloe watches his throat as he swallows. Even after everything that's happened, she's still attracted to him, and the liquid courage flowing through her veins makes her open to acknowledging it, at least to herself. If his devil form was supposed to throw a wrench into her desires, it didn't work. That wasn't him, not really. _This_, the Prince of Drunken Revelry, this is Lucifer.

"No more. I've had enough," she says, her words bunched close together. But she accepts the glass without further comment and finds herself sipping the heavy Merlot again. It's good, very good, and no doubt costs a small fortune—which, she thinks, means it costs more than it should. She doesn't have it in her to be a snob over such things, but she is amused by Lucifer's snobbery.

"Doctor Linda would be very proud of us, Detective," says Lucifer. "Well, me especially, but you, too, I imagine."

"Oh?" she snickers. "How come?"

"Well, it may be hard to believe," he starts, his tone jocular, "but I've not always been very good at expressing myself, and yet here we've gone a whole day baring our souls to each other. I believe she would call this a breakthrough."

Chloe laughs before sobering slightly. She understands Lucifer in a way that she has, heretofore, assumed to be impossible. More than anything, she now understands how he can be so world-weary and clever, but also youthful to the point of naiveté.

Lucifer is many things: charismatic, overly confident, ingenious, funny, and purportedly devilishly good in the sack. But he is also stunted from eons spent in Hell, a place she can't think of as anything other than cruel and unusual punishment. It's one of several subjects he's been circumspect about today.

And even though it's a little terrifying to think she might be going against the Almighty Himself by aligning herself with the man beside her, she knows she's still Team Lucifer. God's never spoken her, and so remains a touch unreal, but the Devil almost never shuts up, and well... He gets a bad rap.

She watches as Lucifer's eyelids droop under the influence of alcohol and no doubt some lingering physical exhaustion from yesterday's bastardized attempt at surgery. The same protectiveness she felt when he lay red and broken has only grown as they've spent the day together, untangling the past. It's far from perfect, but it's real and theirs, and it's a start.

They roamed the city on foot, talking as they toed through sand and slipped down alleyways. They stopped for burgers at a food truck, and then ice cream, when the sun was high. On a street corner, they watched a young woman strum her guitar and sing "Rocket Man." Lucifer thanked her and stuffed several hundred dollars into the hat at her feet.

It was the most time Chloe ever spent with Lucifer outside work, and she regrets how she waited so long to do it. He's easier to talk to than she imagined. Or perhaps it's that his lips are looser now that he can speak the truth and she has ears to hear it.

By the time they arrived at his penthouse, wine and pizza box in hand, Chloe felt good, deep in her bones.

"I can hear you thinking from over here."

Chloe stirs from her thoughts. She almost makes a joke about Jedis, but there's something in his tone that suggests he's worried about what's on her mind. "I enjoyed today," she says sincerely.

Lucifer sinks into his chair a little more, his eyes crinkling at the corners with his grin. "And how do you plan to enjoy tonight?"

She laughs. _Now_ he's teasing her; there's no heat behind his words. "I—" Her phone rings. She grabs it from her back pocket. "Trixie," she announces, showing him the screen.

"And I thought _I_ was the Devil," he murmurs. "Your spawn has positively evil timing."

She snorts and answers the call. "Hey, Trixie-babe! How'd you do on your spelling test?" For the next several minutes, Trixie's chatter washes over her, and she supplies all the requisite _oohs_, _ahs_, and questions.

"Dad says you're with Lucifer."

Chloe glances at him. "I am."

"Can you put me on speakerphone? Please?"

Chloe takes the phone away from her ear and looks at Lucifer pointedly as she says, "All right, monkey, _I've got you on speakerphone_."

Translation: Behave, Satan.

"Hello, urchin," Lucifer says into the night.

Trixie giggles delightedly. "Hey, Lucifer! Thanks for taking care of Brayden for me."

"No thanks required. Only remember we're even...unless you have a new deal in mind."

Chloe's eyes widen. _Taken care of_ is a terrifying phrase. "What happened to Brayden, Trixie?"

"He's moving next week!"

"Huh," Chloe says, squinting at Lucifer. "How...sudden."

After she ends the call on a river of _goodnights, sleep tights_ and _I love yous_, she turns to Lucifer, who looks disturbed by the open affection. "What did you do?"

At this, he smirks. "The Decker women made a deal with the Devil. Services were rendered. Neither of you ever said _how_ they should be rendered. In the words of Sinatra, I did it my way."

"Trixie said you _talked_ to her bullies."

"The unrepentant require special treatment. Surely you can appreciate that."

"Did you pay the McNeils to leave L.A.?"

Lucifer scoffs. "Darling, you have a lot to learn about favors. If I paid money to everyone I wanted something from, I'd be a poor man, and"—he waves his wine glass around, indicating the rooftop—"I am certainly not that. Likewise, if I only ever demanded money in return for favors, I would be wealthy, but powerless. But, don't worry, nothing too illegal transpired."

"_Too_ illegal," she echoes.

"Kidding," he says, dark eyes twinkling. "A prestigious law firm in Chicago offered Brayden's father a position."

Cain wasn't the only one with far-reaching connections.

"I'm guessing that was no coincidence."

"You guess correctly."

"Great, so you unleashed an 'amoral' lawyer on Chicago."

"Uh, yes. It's Chicago. He'll be welcomed with open arms. Though I don't imagine it will be a very permanent position. I may have gotten him in the door, but his ineptitude will have him out on his arse within a year."

There's a lot that's bizarre about this conversation, enough so that Chloe suddenly bursts into laughter and struggles to stop.

"Are you all right?" Lucifer asks, but he knows she is, and he's chuckling, too.

Wheezing another laugh, Chloe says, "You'll have to explain this favor business to me one day. I feel like I'm sitting with L.A.'s biggest mob boss."

"Oh, my ledgers would scandalize you." He grins. "The mob bosses owe _me_."

"I'm a cop," she laughs into her hands. "You have the right to remain silent, you know. I shouldn't know this stuff."

"Say the word, and I'll open my books. I'm not one to hide my sins." He folds his hands primly over his crossed knees and leans toward her. "And I always comply with law enforcement."

"Bribes don't count." She holds up a hand. "Okay, seriously. Don't tell me if you've ever successfully bribed a cop."

"Why, bribing isn't necessary. I have an in with someone at the department."

"Oh? And what if your connection stops putting up with you?" The grin on her face makes her cheeks hurt.

"Well," Lucifer says, his voice rich like warm honey, "if she wants to cuff me and punish me, I won't deny either of us the pleasure."

Chloe exhales shakily, suddenly aware of how close they are. She hears the blood rushing through her veins, feels the flutter of her heart. Her gaze settles on Lucifer's parted lips. What would it be like to throw caution to the wind and kiss him, now that she knows the truth, now that she's seen his darkness and his light?

But Lucifer suddenly breaks the spell, clearing his throat and leaning away. "Right. Shall I drive you home?" he asks, tugging on his sleeves.

She blinks at him and sits back, feeling as though he's thrown her into a vat of ice water. She's not sure whether to feel bereft or grateful. Maybe they _are_ moving too fast, all things considered. Of course they are. What's wrong with her?

It's just...it feels so good to know more. Between that and the wine, it's clouded her judgment. Yeah. That's it.

"It is late, I guess," she says.

Lucifer's up so fast, striding toward the stairwell, that she has to jog to catch up.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__ Anyone reading know a bit about police departments and investigations, or at least read/watch more police-related material? I have some questions if you're open to tolerating them. Otherwise, I'll soon be winging some stuff (pun intended) in this story. I can probably get away with it, but I like to do my research, when possible. Hit me up at matchstickdolly at gmail._


	6. Muscle Memory

_**Author's Notes:**__ When I write about Hell in this story, I listen to the dark ambient music of Atrium Carceri. I'm convinced they somehow have gone to Hell, made a recording of the atmosphere, and brought it back to Earth._

_Because their music is instrumental and ambient, it's not distracting. While you read, have a listen to their latest album, "Codex," on Spotify or YouTube. Don't say you weren't forewarned about the creepiness, though._

* * *

**06\. MUSCLE MEMORY**

* * *

In the cave, Cain loses all sense of time and place and self. He is no longer Cain, Earth's first, accursed murderer. He is Sinner, Balor's most-prized toy. His world is small, and he says little, speaking only "yes," "thank you," and "Master."

A favorite among Balor's demonic horde, he is rarely without visitors. Some who come to play with him look like men, and some look like women, but they could never be mistaken for human. They have claws for hands, exposed muscle and tendon, organs that sit outside the body. He has kissed fork-tongued mouths and stared into the slit pupils of feline eyes.

And, oh, how he loves what they've made him into—because what else can he do, but embrace his fate? How they cut into his flesh and use his body, then soothe his pain so they can do it again. "Thank you," he says, as Balor has instructed. "Thank you."

* * *

Years pass, and Balor releases Sinner from his chains. The sensation is so foreign that he gasps and falls to his hands and knees. He trembles under this new, terrifying freedom.

"How lovely you are," Balor coos, running bony fingers through Sinner's hair, which is long and stringy. "You'll stay here for all eternity, won't you?"

"Yes, Master. Thank you."

For the first time in a very long time, Balor leaves him alone and no one visits. Whether it is a test or not, Sinner doesn't know and doesn't care. He simply sits, watching the ash fall beyond the mouth of the cave. The world outside is endless. The cave is familiar and safe.

Many days later, a demon he's never seen before climbs through the entrance, her white-blond hair cascading over her shoulders. When she stands and faces him, the braided cords of a cat o' nine tails rustle by her side. She holds it with a skeletal hand.

"Your master has left you unattended," she observes.

"Yes."

"And unchained."

"Yes."

"I don't serve your master," she tells him, and leans in to caress his face with the whip's handle. "You would look better in my collection. How do you feel about a change of scenery?"

Sinner doesn't have the words to respond to such a question. What does _he_ want? He has no wants other than to please Master.

When she drags him from the cave, he weeps. Oh, how angry Master will be, how disappointed. Sinner _cannot_ disappoint Master. He won't.

At the foot of the mountainside, he finds enough strength in his agony to tug himself free from the demon's grasp. She stumbles back with a hiss. She is smaller than he is and didn't come prepared for resistance.

"Stop!" she commands.

But she is not Master. Dropping low, he seizes a large stone from the ground and raises it above his head with a roar. Her whip strikes out, but he ignores the stinging pain and smashes the rock into her face with the momentum his larger body affords him. Her head snaps to the right with the impact, but she is strong and stays on her feet. She rounds on him with a snarl.

The weight of the stone wakes something in Sinner, an old, old memory. He has been here before, in another time and place, with another person. With many other people. This...this is his calling.

The demon lunges at him, but he uses his size against her, bringing down the stone again and again and again. It is nearly impossible to kill a demon, but it can be done—temporarily—with enough force and repetition, enough will. When his arms grow tired, he pants and gazes upon the pulpy mess that remains of her face. She won't be getting up any time soon—days from now, maybe.

"Sinner!" Balor barks.

Sinner's head jerks up, a shiver of anticipatory pleasure and pain rippling through his body. Balor's gangly arms swing wildly as he marches forward, bare feet kicking up ash. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion.

When Sinner, and later Cain, looks back on these moments, he will never know what compelled him to raise the stone against his master. Muscle memory developed over thousands of years, perhaps, or that boundless human drive to stay alive, even on a plane made for the dead.

Maybe it's just how God made him.

After years of captivity, he is weak, but acutely motivated. Adrenaline floods his veins, giving him strength he will pay for later.

It takes hours, but he incapacitates Balor, using rocks and fists and teeth and nails. Panting, he stands, triumphant, over the two battered bodies, one petite and blond, the other long and misshapen, wearing only corduroy pants. Blood and sweat cut through the ash that is caked on his body.

With Balor incapacitated and caught in some deep sleep for bodily repairs, a spell is broken. It is in this moment that Sinner—Cain—is hauled away by some invisible rope. He stumbles along, helpless and unable to ignore the pull.

Although Balor had frequent visitors, they came from far away. As Cain is driven forward, he sees no souls or demons roaming the barren landscape. Only ash heap after ash heap, one dark mountain after another, until he finds himself in a rocky passageway filled with doors.

He hisses. Even after all this time of losing himself in pain, the large wooden door ahead is unmistakable.

"No!" he cries for the first time in many years, the word strange on his tongue. But still he staggers forward.

The door flies open, and a vortex draws him in, to Griffith Park and Amenadiel and Charlotte Richards and Chloe Decker. A gun appears in his hand. Cain aims and squeezes the trigger.

* * *

_**Closing Note:**__ I know you all love Deckerstar, but Cain's chapters serve a purpose. HAVE FAITH, heathens._


	7. Are These God's Plans?

**07\. ARE THESE GOD'S PLANS?**

* * *

Morning light filters through closed blinds, bathing Lucifer in thin bars of rose gold. Stretched out on Linda's couch, he searches the popcorn ceiling for pornographic patterns in an effort to ignore the heavy weight resting beneath his breastbone.

After seeing Chloe to her home, he tried calling Linda for an emergency, late-night session. Unfortunately, the doctor has developed a nasty habit of putting her phone on silent after ten o'clock. It's as if she doesn't care about her clients at all, really.

He nearly went to her home, but a brief spark of empathy made him realize this would not please Linda. Excepting their brief stint as lovers, she tends to keep her private life separate from her professional life. She may delve into the lives of others, but she rarely volunteers information about herself—her deepest, darkest desire, to give a famous, inspirational TED Talk, being a natural exception.

And so, he has waited, albeit impatiently, while grappling with an eternity's worth of disturbing thoughts. It doesn't suit him. Self-flagellating, retrospective nonsense is more Amenadiel's jam. Lucifer chases highs and thighs to avoid thinking about his feelings or the past, but lately...

Well, lately the distractions haven't exactly _worked_, have they? Not since Cain got in the way, and certainly not since Chloe saw his true form—devil face, angel wings, and all. And now the detective is acting strange, the complete opposite of how she should behave, and... He draws in a shuddering breath. Can the Devil have a nervous breakdown?

A few minutes after eight, the office door swings open, and the doctor is in. Linda struts to her desk in cream-colored stilettos, ever a fellow paragon of good fashion sense.

He claps his hands together and sits up. "_Finally!_"

"Oh my Lord!" Linda cries, a stack of binders flying from her hands as she spins to face him.

Lucifer catches a folder before it slams into his face. "Good morning, Doctor. No need to call me lord, you know."

Linda holds a hand to her heart. "Lucifer, _what_ are you doing here? You missed your last session, and then you didn't reschedule. I don't even _make_ appointments this early. I've not had my coffee yet." She stares at the floor. "I need coffee for this, don't I?"

"Mm, well, I wouldn't be here if it weren't a bit of an _emergency_, so can we get on with it? I'll pay you double. Bring you coffee after? How's that sound?"

"That's not what—" Sighing, Linda falls into the chair across from the couch, scattered binders forgotten. "Okay. Fine." She draws in a deep breath through her nose. "What seems to be the problem, Lucifer? I was worried about you when you didn't show. You didn't return any of my texts, either."

"I've been a bit busy." He tilts his head. "Have you seen the news recently?"

"I saw that Lieutenant Pierce—Cain—died." She narrows her eyes. "Do I want to know the whole sto—"

"I bloody well killed him."

"Ah, you—" She looks taken aback before forcing a more neutral expression. "Okay. I thought you weren't allowed to kill humans."

"I'm not, am I?" he laughs, somewhat unhinged. "But I suppose some rules are made to be broken. He tried to kill me and, more importantly, the detective. What's that rubbish you Yanks say?" He affects an American accent and says, "_I stood my ground_."

Whether Daddy dearest sees it that way or not, only time will tell.

"Are we talking self-defense here or something a little more...sinister? Actually, don't tell me. Um, so, you're feeling...residual guilt, then? Maybe?"

"What? No, no, no, I'm not here because of Cain. The detective _knows_, Doctor."

"_Oh_!" Linda says, surprised and struggling to keep up. "Oh, you told her!" She scoots to the edge of her seat.

"Not exactly. More like my devil face came back at the crime scene and got stuck."

"Stuck. Wow, okay. I can see why you missed your appointment. Thank you for...not subjecting me to that. Again."

"Mm. Think you're supposed to call a doctor if it lasts for more than four hours, but not many specialize in celestial cockups, now, do they?"

Ignoring his evasive humor, she says, "So. How's Chloe?"

"That's just it," Lucifer grouses. "She's fine and fucking dandy. Saw my burnt arse, bloody wings, and everything. Patched up my wounds, even, and that was a right grisly affair, believe me. And then"—he leans forward, as though he's about to reveal a secret—"yesterday, she spent the entire day with me."

"Oh. Well. It sounds like...like she accepts you. That's wonderful, Lucifer."

He falls back against the couch again, his expression skeptical. "But why?"

"Why not? You've been friends for a long time now. And you're a charming fellow. Handsome. Funny. You _can_ be thoughtful."

"Yes, but none of that works on her, does it? Not really." Sometimes he believes it does, but mostly he sees how often he fails her, both as a partner and as...well, whatever they sometimes seem to be. "Also, I'm the Devil. Bit of a mark against me."

"From all of our sessions together, it's never sounded like Chloe wasn't open to knowing the real you. In fact, it often seemed like that was exactly what she wanted. _You_ were afraid of sharing yourself until very recently. It's okay to discover your fears weren't warranted. It's okay to feel _happy_ about that."

"But what does it all mean?"

"Only Chloe can answer that question. But, what do _you_ hope it means?"

Lucifer looks down at his hands. "Well, I suppose I hope... Well. But I'm left wondering again: Can she really control what she's feeling, or is it a manipulation?"

"We went over this, Lucifer," Linda reminds him gently. "You can't know what your father's plan is for Chloe or for you. Who's to say there even is a plan! Maybe Chloe was placed in your path, or maybe she's here to be used against you, or perhaps _you_ were brought here for her."

What a load of bollocks.

"_You don't know,_" Linda stresses. "You may never know."

"It's just Dad's not exactly a big advocate of consent, now, is he?" Lucifer laments.

"You want to be sure Chloe's feelings are real, that she has free will."

"That's the idea." It's a point of pride for the Devil, that all in his company enthusiastically choose to be there.

"Okay, are you willing to entertain a scary idea for a minute?"

"What could possibly scare me?"

She looks at him doubtfully. "For just a moment, let's imagine Chloe _has_ been placed here for some reason, that she _doesn't_ have complete control over the situation or her feelings. Have you ever considered that that might still turn out okay? That it might not even conflict with her free will?"

"I don't bloody well see how," he seethes.

Linda raises a placating hand. "Free will is very important to you, I know, but it's also a very tricky subject. Sometimes what we _believe_ we're choosing, our minds and bodies have chosen for us before we ever became conscious of our decision. Is that still free will?"

"Where are you going with this, Doctor?"

"Let me put it this way: We don't choose to sleep. We're built to sleep. Now, we can _choose_ to deprive ourselves of rest for a time, but not forever, and that's okay. That's a constraint, not the complete absence of free will. It just means we work within the context we've been given. If Chloe is truly _made_ to be a certain way, Lucifer, that _is_ real for her, just as real as needing sleep.

"And that's where you may need to be careful with her. If she's here for a reason—whatever the reason—contradicting that to soothe your own philosophical conundrums may not help her. It may actually hurt her, just like forcing her to stay awake for days on end would."

"So I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. As always."

"I didn't say that. But, what's the harm in not worrying until you need to, until you have more information? What's the harm in...accepting her acceptance?"

Lucifer is quiet as he considers her words. "So, tell me what I should do next."

"I think you need to tell Chloe what you _know_, which is that Amenadiel blessed her mother so she could conceive. Leave it at that. Let Chloe draw her own conclusions and make her own judgments. But don't hold back if she asks questions."

"And if she wants nothing more to do with me after this?" he asks ruefully.

"If that happens, I'll be here. It's not something you would go through alone."

Lucifer clears his throat. "Right. Thank you, Doctor." He rises to leave, his chest hollow. He'll never admit it aloud, but he knows nothing, no amount of therapy, liquor, or easy lovers, would ever mend the damage Chloe Decker might yet do.

"Lucifer?" Linda calls before he leaves her office. He turns from the hallway. "Have you spoken to Maze?"

"No." He narrows his eyes. "Have you?"

"Oh, nope." Interesting. She's lying. Horribly. "No, just wondering if you had."

"Mm. Well, if you do happen to see Mazikeen, tell her to be very careful, would you? I _am_ still the Devil, and she's earned a reckoning."

* * *

There's no parking available on Chloe's narrow street. There never is if you don't hold a permit; sometimes there isn't, even if you _do_ hold a permit. Building a city where cars are a necessity, but then not bothering to offer enough parking: a very special corner of Hell, that. No wonder L.A. feels like home.

Lucifer blocks a driveway with his Corvette and gets out of the car. Bending, he peeks at himself in the side mirror. His hair sits at odd angles on his head, curling up, out, and away. Dark circles surround his eyes. His suit is a mess of wrinkles. "You look bloody knackered," he tells his reflection. Why didn't he stop by the penthouse?

But, he thinks with a sigh, this can't wait. He won't let this be another secret revealed at the worst possible time. Fingering a cufflink, he cuts his eyes up to the blue sky, whether out of defiance or wariness, he's not sure.

At Chloe's door, he's just raising his fist to knock when it swings open, leaving him knuckling air.

Ella Lopez stops short on her way out. "Oh my God," she gasps.

Lucifer sighs. "The Devil, Miss Lopez."

She sputters nonsensically.

Chloe peeks around Ella's head. "_Lucifer._ Now's _really_ not a good time." She squeezes Ella's shoulders. "It's all right. Come back inside." She gives Lucifer a pointed look, which he chooses to ignore.

An awed, slack expression paints the typically bubbly forensic scientist's face. He'd know that look anywhere, but he rarely sees it without purposely revealing divinity. It's a look of complete recognition.

"Well, well, well." Grinning, he tilts his head and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "You've figured something out, haven't you, Miss Lopez? Good for you! Maybe _you_ should be a detective. I'm sure I could make a few calls and get you Daniel's job."

"You're...not a method actor."

"Goodness, no. Just the Devil. And a consultant for the LAPD, of course."

Ella shakes her head, as if she might dislodge the truth. "Holy shitballs, I made you go to church."

"You what?" Chloe laughs.

"She did indeed," Lucifer confirms. "Don't worry, though. All is forgiven. Your church was absolutely crawling with deviants. I had a wonderful time."

"This. Is. Crazy," Ella exclaims, her hands animating her thoughts. "Like, I've been praying for proof, right? My whole life. And I know God works in mysterious ways and all, but, uh, _you're_ not exactly the sign I had in mind, you know? No offense."

"None taken! Let me guess, I'm more handsome than you expected? Better-dressed?"

"More like a narcissist," Chloe interrupts. She tries to drag Ella away from the door, but the smaller woman digs in her sneakers. "Just give her a break, Lucifer. No—"

"Devil business?" he quips. "Tell me, Miss Lopez, what's made you a believer all of a sudden?"

Ella raises her right hand, in which she clutches a plastic evidence bag. The single feather within catches the light, its long, translucent quill poking against one corner of the ziplock. "I found this at the crime scene before they suspended me. I...took it home. And looked at it under a microscope."

"First cars, now evidence. Whatever will you nick next?"

"I couldn't help myself! But, here, do you...want it back?" asks Ella, holding it out to him.

He snorts. "I've no use for the thing, but..." He grabs the bag and unzips it to remove the feather. "Put it in something nicer, would you? Something silk, preferably in black."

"Uh, okay. Is that important?"

"Good taste is always important." He twirls the feather between his thumb and forefinger, his expression thoughtful, before handing it back to her.

"Oh," she exhales. "I hadn't touched it before now. It's so soft."

"Keep it on you at all times. If you're ever in a bind, it may prove useful. It's good for healing life-threatening wounds—one-time use, of course."

"Wow. I—" She blinks and then stops speaking, her eyes glued to the feather.

"Oh, dear," Lucifer sighs. "I suppose touching it directly is a problem."

"What did you do to her?" Chloe asks, her nose scrunched. She gives Ella a small shake, which goes unnoticed.

"It would seem I've rendered another woman speechless," Lucifer replies. "Oh, don't worry, Detective. She's just a bit high on divinity. Should right itself in a few hours."

"High on divinity." Chloe frowns. "That didn't happen to me."

"Yes, well, we've already established you're a freak." Saying as much reminds him of his reason for visiting. Taking Ella by the shoulders, he guides her out of the apartment. "Right. Time to be on your way, Miss Lopez. Enjoy the prezzie."

"She can't drive like this," Chloe protests.

"Very well," he says, fishing his cell phone from his breast pocket. "I'll organize an Uber. Do you have her address?" Chloe searches her own phone before rattling it off.

In a daze, Ella gazes up at Lucifer. "Thank you, Lucifer."

"Er, yes, you're quite welcome. Perhaps it's best if you—" He reaches out and tucks the feather inside her jacket, then presses her arm toward her body to hold it in place. "Can't go about, showing it to everyone."

"When will I see you again?"

"As soon as the detective has a poor soul for you to pick at, you little vulture." He gives her another gentle shove. "Trevor and his blue Prius will be here for you soon!" The door swings shut.

"Will she be okay?" Chloe worries. "She's been...existential for the last hour."

"Oh, she'll be fine. It's not like she saw my wings. One little feather won't fry her."

"Aren't you concerned that she knows?"

"Whatever for? I go about telling everyone the truth all the time. It's refreshing to have a bevy of believers for once. Perhaps I'll start a proper cult for once. How novel."

"You could have believers any time you wanted, if you went around _showing_ people the truth."

"That's how you start a religion," he says with distaste. "I prefer the intimacy of a cult or nothing at all."

Chloe looks him up and down. "You're wearing your clothes from last night."

"Uh, yes." He pats at his suit, then runs a hand through his hair. "It was a long night."

"Does this have anything to do with why you freaked out on the roof?"

"I did _not_ freak out. I was merely concerned for your well-being." Timidly, he puts a hand between her shoulders and guides her to the couch. "But there is something else you need to know."

"Hah, great." Chloe laughs nervously as she sinks into the cushions and draws a pillow to her chest. "What, is a plague coming?"

He pauses, considering. "Probably not."

"Probably not," she echoes.

"That was more Mum's doing. Dad's very fond of you lot. And, as you're about to learn, he still occasionally tinkers with Creation, as he sees fit, so you can't say he's lost interest yet."

For a moment, they don't speak. Then Chloe reaches across the cushion between them and takes his hands in hers. "It's okay. Whatever it is."

"You don't know that," he scoffs. As if _she_ should be comforting _him_. Sighing, he says, "This isn't about me, Chloe."

"Then who's it about? Your...dad?" He can see how much _Dad = God_ bothers her. That makes two of them.

"Actually, it's about you."

"Me? What about me?" Her hands break into a sweat around his.

"What do you know about your conception?"

She makes a small sound of amused disgust. "Not much, I guess. Thankfully. Why?"

He forces himself to look her in the eye. "Your parents struggled to conceive."

"Did they? They never told me." She tilts her head. "How do _you_ know that?"

"Because my father," he says, "took a special interest in their woes. He sent Amenadiel down to bless your mother, your mum and dad shagged, and, bam, Penelope Decker became Mama Decker."

Chloe takes her hands away from his, leaving him cold. "Is that something that's done?" she asks. "Like, some sort of supernatural IVF?" Her joke falls flat over both of them.

"To my knowledge, it's never happened before or since. You are...a miracle."

She snorts. "That's what my mom always called me when I was little." Her mouth forms a hard, stubborn line. "But, no, I'm not. And even if I am _technically_, I don't know what to do with that info."

"Neither do I," he admits, taking some comfort in that, as Linda keeps suggesting he should.

"You think I'm here for a reason?" she asks.

"Who bloody knows what Dad's on about? But maybe."

She frowns. "Well, if I am, I don't know what it is. Do you have any ideas?"

Oh, how he wants to lie. But he doesn't. "Nothing concrete," he stalls.

Chloe squints at him. "Just spit it out, Lucifer."

"I don't want to say anything," he says tightly, "because, as has been pointed out to me, I have no _evidence_ to support any claims. You're always telling me not to come to hasty conclusions, Detective."

"Okay, sure, but humor me, just this once."

He swallows hard and wishes his flask weren't bone dry. "There are several possibilities. The timing is suspicious, what with our crossing paths during my retirement." He reaches for the most positive assumption. "It's possible there's a reason _I'm_ here for you, that there's something important you must do that I can help you with."

"Uh-huh. My own personal Devil support system." Chloe folds her arms over her chest. "And what are the other theories? The opposite of that, I'm guessing? That _I'm_ here, for _you_?"

"Well, you are quite the curveball, aren't you? What with how I can be mortally wounded in your presence. Perhaps Dad's trying to off me once and for all."

"That's... I know he's God, but if that's true, or could even be true, that's not okay." She glances up at the ceiling in concern.

"Yes, he's a right tosser."

"But there's no evidence for any of this?" she says, and he can sense her pinning items to a mental investigation board.

"None other than knowing Amenadiel blessed your mother."

Chloe blows out a long breath and shrugs. "Okay."

"_Okay?_" Bloody hell.

"Yeah. Okay. What else am I supposed to say? It's like Hell. I get that that's a real place now, but it's not like I _understand_ it personally. This is no different. What's it mean to me that Amenadiel blessed my mom? I'm here. That's all there is to it. I'm still me."

Lucifer throws his head back and laughs. It's a high, tired sound that matches his rumpled clothing. "Here I've been fretting over telling you this, over what it all means, and you..." He shakes his head. "You simply _accept_ it and move on."

Perhaps she's here to drive him insane. That would be quite the warped punishment.

"I guess that's just part of being human." Chloe shrugs. "We wrestle with huge, unanswerable questions, and we don't have the luxury of time to get any answers."

Lucifer studies her face. "You know, you're very strong." Headstrong, too. Part of the appeal, really.

"Thank you." She sweeps her hair over her shoulder. "Is this... This is everything?"

"Everything of note. Oh! Actually, I suppose Candy's related to all this, so let's hash that out, shall we?"

Chloe's eyes narrow. "The stripper you married."

"One," he says, lifting a finger, "not a stripper. Owns a lovely little nightclub and occasionally dances exotically."

"Of course, how could I be so wrong?"

He raises a second finger. "Two, that whole thing was annulled, so we were never married." Chloe scoffs as he lifts a third finger. "Three, I did all of that for you. My mum was here at the time and up to her usual manipulations. And I was worried your feelings weren't yours, that Dad was _making_ you feel a certain way."

"So, you forced yourself to plow into a hot blond for me. Gee, thanks."

"We had a _business arrangement_," he insists. "There was no sex involved, I assure you." Though it had certainly been on the table. No need to mention that.

She laughs. "You'll forgive me for not believing that."

"She was merely there to help cool things down between us and help me figure out what my mum was up to. I don't lie to you."

"No," Chloe growls, and stands suddenly. "You don't lie, but you...you dance around the truth." Her hands land on her hips, and Lucifer doesn't know whether to be worried or turned on. "And I don't know if God _can_ manipulate my life and feelings, but _you_ did by marrying her."

He deflates. "I suppose I deserve that."

"Yeah, you do. Now, I need you to leave."

"Detective?"

"Go. I need some space."

He staggers to his feet. Of all the things he thought might upset her, Candy was very low on the list. "I didn't—" he starts.

"No, you didn't," she snaps, shoving a finger into the middle of his chest. "Didn't talk to me, didn't let me make my own decisions. Nope, none of that. The usual."

"As if you would have believed me!"

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Sometimes you really piss me off."

"Oh, what? Because I'm right?"

"Don't push it." But she smiles faintly.

Ah, a smile. There's hope yet. "I propose we make a deal," he says, a beat later.

"And what deal would that be?"

"I'll refrain from marrying strippers for you, if you'll refrain from marrying absolute knobheads for me."

"So, you admit she was a stripper. And I didn't marry Cain."

"I didn't marry Candy, either," he says gleefully. "But Cain _was_ a knobhead, wasn't he?"

Chloe snorts. "Fine. Deal."

"Come now, Detective, you have to do it proper." He holds out his hand.

They shake on it, holding a little longer than necessary.

* * *

The next day, Lucifer finds himself loitering on the veranda outside Montgomery Funeral Home, a cigarette wedged between his lips. It's a warm, sunny Friday, perfect for happy hours and sex-filled siestas, so of course the humans are set on ruining it with pointless death rituals.

Charlotte Richards was well known and controversial. Her visitation has brought out the masses. He doesn't count himself among them. He's only making an appearance because Linda nagged him to do so.

"It's important to the people in your life," she told him in a phone call.

And, bloody hell, he sure has people in his life now, doesn't he? Chose them of his own free will and everything. A true earthside experience. Not exactly how he always imagined it would be. Far more inconvenient, far less naked calisthenics.

He watches as people dressed in shades of black and gray file in and filter out, some to grieve, most to rubberneck, and a few to no doubt spit at the foot of Charlotte's solid mahogany casket. No good lawyer goes to the grave without her share of admirers and enemies. Charlotte was a very good lawyer.

As earthly as a funereal experience may be, it's making Lucifer feel fidgety and more removed from this plane than he has in a while. They're like ants, really, rushing about their business, utterly incapable of seeing how limited their perspective on the universe actually is.

Before the detective, he would have had some fun with these grieving fools. He wants to laugh at them openly, make them face the reality of their inevitable afterlife. A hundred billion souls have come before you, he would shout. What does this one little soul matter when your own mortal coil is desperately trying to unwind with each passing second? Carpe diem, for Dad's sake.

And what's with Charlotte's made-up, chemical-bloated body? That isn't _her_. Even the humans can't quite pretend it is. It's expensive refuse slated to be chucked in the ground because it no longer sparks joy.

Lucifer scowls at a smarmy man as he enters the building. He may yet burst in and make a scene. It's very tempting. But even he knows that's poor timing so close to revealing himself to Chloe, thus his restrained loitering and contemplative chain smoking.

As if she's sensed him thinking about her, there the detective is, finding his eyes from thirty feet away. Actually, all "his" humans are there. Three lovely women and a cake-obsessed imp, all flitting about Daniel as if he hasn't only recently learned how not to be a complete douche.

And what a sad sack Daniel is today. Lucifer would openly sob, too, were he dressed in that off-the-rack suit. But, my, what a support system he's got in spite of it. Chloe is pressed up against her ex-husband's left side, his arm thrown over her shoulder. Trixie follows along on Chloe's left, clutching her mother's black dress, her concerned gaze fixed on her parents. Ella is pressed against Dan's right, that silly crucifix back around her neck. And walking in front of them all, as if she might bat away anyone who dares interfere with the grieving process, is Linda, her chin held almost as high as her heels.

Lucifer's chest spasms uncomfortably at their united front. His family doesn't rally like this, never has. Although, perhaps Amenadiel, of all angels, might be on his side now, might actually appear if he prayed to him, and not just because he's been the "misbehaving" black sheep, either.

With Trixie near, Lucifer drops his cigarette to the ground and stamps out its embers. He steps forward to join them, but Chloe shakes her head before refocusing on her ex. Lucifer remains in place, frowning. Is she still angry about Candy? He thought she was over that.

Chloe, Daniel, Trixie, and Linda enter the funeral home, but Ella hangs back. She meanders over to him, a sad smile on her face. "Hey, Lucifer."

He quirks a brow at her. "No longer drunk on divinity, Miss Lopez?"

"Sober enough to drive," she assures him. She nods to a coworker from the precinct before saying, "Bet all of this seems really dumb to you, huh?"

That's a trap of a question, if he's ever heard one. "I can't say your rituals aren't...puzzling." He waves a hand. "All this is for the living, who collectively pretend it's for the dead. Now, the _Vikings_, with their pyres and feasts and drinking... That was a party I could get behind. None of this dour bollocks."

"Come on," she says, nudging his arm with her shoulder as she leans against the veranda's railing beside him. "You gotta feel a little sad. You liked Charlotte."

Lucifer gives a long-suffering sigh. "She's not _gone_, Miss Lopez. She's relocated. You'll see her one day."

"It doesn't feel that way to us. I mean, I've always believed in Heaven, and"—she glances at him meaningfully—"now, more than ever. But life is looong, dude. I know eighty years is nothing to you, but to us, it's everything. It sucks that we go can go decades without seeing someone we love because of some freak accident or cancer or diabetes or some other BS. And, then, I mean, not all of us...go to the same place."

"Never waste your time on guilt. You'll go to Heaven. You'll see her. It's that simple."

"I hope so. I'm aiming for it, or I'll die tryin', right?"

He smirks, sharing in her gallows humor. "But what does any of this have to do with such a costly charade?"

"People just wanna say goodbye. Whether they think they're saying it for forever or just for a little while." She looks out toward the rolling hills of the connecting cemetery when she says, "It's gonna be pretty hard for you to see Charlotte again, isn't it?"

"Try impossible," he answers with false amusement.

"That blows. Well, maybe you should say goodbye, too. Could be cathartic. You never know." Standing straight, she claps a hand to his shoulder. "I'm gonna head in. Let me know if you wanna come say goodbye and need some moral support. I know how you feel about all the"—she lowers her voice—"G-O-D stuff. I totally get it now." She winks dramatically.

He watches her walk away and marvels at how he has not one, not two, but three humans who know and accept him, the real him, to varying degrees. What is happening?

When she's gone, he turns and rests his elbows on the white railing. He resumes his chain smoking and stares at the rows of stone teeth that are occasionally broken up by garish statues and obelisks. He's made his appearance. Chloe's seen him. He should go. But he lingers, some part of him troubled by Ella's words, by the absurd finality of it all. Just more of Dad taking the piss out of his creations.

A gentle tug on his pants leg makes him twitch.

"Can I stand out here with you?" the detective's spawn requests.

Lucifer sighs and tosses his cigarette. "Really, I just lit this, Beatrice."

"Smoking causes cancer."

"So does the sugar in chocolate cake. But still we have our vices, don't we?"

As usual, the detective's daughter doesn't mind his prickliness. And, if he's honest, he doesn't mind her presence. She's a clever little minx, much like her mother. How she's made up of fifty percent of Daniel, he'll never know. Broken clocks and all that, he supposes.

"I don't like funerals," Trixie gripes.

"What's to like? They're boring, earthly affairs, urchin."

She leans half her weight against his leg, and hangs the rest of it over the railing, much like, well, a monkey. "Charlotte was nice."

"She did have her moments." Once the fear of Hell was in her.

"I think my dad wanted to marry her."

"Well, your father has had a track record of marrying above his station, hasn't he?" They're silent for a moment, until suddenly Trixie begins to sniffle. "Dear me," Lucifer sighs, "let's not bring Niagara Falls into it, child. You couldn't have even known her that well."

"Mommy's always getting hurt," Trixie sobs, her little, round face scrunching. "I don't want her to die, too."

Oh. _Oh._ Lucifer's world tilts alongside Trixie's as he imagines Chloe's body lowered into a hole in the ground, her soul forever beyond reach. His heart stutters. But she's alive now, he reminds himself. That has to be enough.

In one smooth movement, as if he's done it a million times before, he lifts the little girl onto the railing to face him. Her black dress swishes and bunches around her. Holding her arms tight, his long fingers stretching all the way to her bony shoulder blades, he bends and looks her in the eye.

"Beatrice, listen to me. So long as it's in my power—and I've a great deal of that, never you fear—your mother will live long and well. She will watch you drive a car and graduate and kick some undeserving wanker to the curb. Do you understand? I will upend Hell before I allow your mother to die an untimely death."

"But I don't want you to die, either," she wails.

How strange. He clears his throat uncomfortably.

"No need to worry about that." Not now that he has his wings back. "I came back last time, didn't I?" he challenges quietly, daring to remind her of Malcolm and her kidnapping. "Only died a bit."

Trixie hiccups and nods, but the tears still flow. Exhaling shakily, Lucifer yanks his purple pocket square free and wipes at her face. "There now," he says. He hands her the square. "I believe you can blow your nose for yourself." She honks into the fabric, then has the gall to offer it back to him. He grimaces. "No, no. That belongs to you now."

Sighing, Trixie throws her arms around his neck. Lucifer shudders, trying not to think about the snotty fabric trailing down his Prada, but he also makes no move to untangle himself from the child's embrace. Instead, he pulls her closer and palms the side of her head.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Trixie asks, her voice wobbly with fatigue.

"Of course." He strokes her hair. "I do love a good secret."

"You look different from how you used to," she whispers. "More like Mom."

Lucifer's brows furrow as he looks down at her head. Aren't children supposed to speak less obtusely by this age? "Whatever do you mean by that?"

"Your light," she says, as if this explains anything.

Before he can quiz her any further, Chloe rushes up to them, a look of relief, then shock, on her face as she takes in the sight of them together. "Trixie! I was looking everywhere for you! You were supposed to stay with Dad." She looks up at Lucifer, suddenly flustered. "You didn't have to— You could have brought her to me."

"Ah, well," Lucifer says, putting distance between himself and the little girl. "We were perfectly fine, Detective." He glances at Trixie pointedly. "We have mutual interests, your spawn and I."

"That so?" With a groan, Chloe picks Trixie up from the railing and puts her back on her own two feet. "Have you been crying, baby? You're really gonna miss Charlotte, huh?"

Trixie sighs. "I'm okay now." Then she grins up at Lucifer fondly. He forces himself not to return the smile. He has a reputation to keep. The Devil doesn't smile at children, no matter how precocious.

Chloe clasps one of Trixie's hands in her own, and then laces the fingers of her other with Lucifer's. He looks down at her, surprised. "Thank you," she says, and does the unthinkable as she rises to tiptoe and kisses his cheek.

He clears his throat, confused, but pleased. "If I'd known this was the reaction I'd get from embracing your offspring, I'd have done it ages ago. What do I get for a piggyback ride?" He shudders at how eager Trixie is about the prospect.

She laughs softly. "Do you want to come back with us? Have some lunch, maybe?"

Lucifer would like nothing more, but he shakes his head. "I think I... Well, I might need to go say goodbye. To Charlotte."

"Oh," she says, surprised again. "Okay." She gives his fingers a squeeze. "You'll be at the precinct when I start back?"

He pauses. Even after the day they spent together, even after she welcomed him back into her home, he hadn't dared hope for this much. "You need the eggs?" he says quietly.

"That," she admits, "and my partner." She smiles. "Don't be late."

Lucifer watches them leave. He feels things he is too frightened to give words to, even deep in his own mind.

When he finally enters the funeral home, visitation is nearly over. Save for a few clusters of softly-speaking humans, he is alone. There's Daniel, too, sitting in a chair off to the side, staring blankly at the floor. Charlotte's ex-husband and children left long ago.

Lucifer stands before the casket and looks at Charlotte Richards' pickled body. A violent burst of anger rushes through him as he takes in her golden hair. Charlotte, oh, many of these humans will see _her_ again. But Mum... Mum, who'd used this shell to walk and talk and embrace him with? Bloody gone forever. By his own hand.

He holds the edge of the casket, struggling not to crush the wood. The depth of his bitterness is shocking, even to him. How could he possibly care after all these months? It's not as if Mum were some shining example of motherhood. She was a manipulative, all-powerful bitch. And, he thinks, his teeth setting in a snarl, she tried to kill Chloe.

And yet she also held him, many, many eons ago, when she was pure, disembodied light, and he was a winged boy, a light-bringer, who took after her. Always playing pranks on siblings who liked him well enough, but never quite understood him. Always bending rules and incurring his father's wrath.

How many times did she intervene on his behalf? Often, as far as he can remember, and perhaps more than he knows.

He hasn't forgotten what she told him, that he was only sent to Hell because of her pleas, that his father intended to destroy him. Maybe it's the truth. She seemed to believe it was. But he'll never know now, will he?

"Hey, man," Daniel says, tearing him from his thoughts. "I'm surprised you came. I know you didn't always get along with Charlotte. Must've been weird having her for a stepmom."

Poor sod. Always so dreadfully out of the loop.

"Yes, well, I'm realizing I may actually miss her." He swallows. "More than I expected." In his mind's eye, he sees his mother pulled apart, her shining light drawn into that other place and time, a place he hopes she has made her own. He feels the weight of Azrael's blade, the burden of free will and responsibility.

"Charlotte had a bigger heart than a lot of people gave her credit for," Daniel says. "Maybe she didn't always know how to show it, but I'm sure she loved you, man."

She did. She loved her children fiercely, if imperfectly.

So few have loved him.

Lucifer can't speak, can barely breathe, around the knot in his throat. Blindly patting Daniel on the shoulder, he turns away, taking long strides out of the funeral home. His hands fumble in his suit jacket for his flask, cigarettes, and lighter—anything, anything, to turn off these ghastly emotions.


End file.
